The Right Road
by msgenevieve447
Summary: ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. One single decision can sometimes change the world. Lincoln didn't go into that garage, and he didn't end up on Death Row. Michael didn't rob that bank, and he never stepped foot inside Fox River. Sara never fell in love with an inmate, and she locked the infirmary door every single night. If everything was different, would anything stay the same?
1. Chapter 1

_"I think it should end with catastrophe, I think there should be this massive explosion, car crashes, bullets flying, characters you love lie dying left and right, and then freeze frame in the middle of this chaos, and rapidly rewind all the way back the four seasons of Prison Break, episode after episode, scene after scene, flashes of different characters and moments happening, almost too fast to be recognised. And rewind, all the way back to the night Lincoln was supposed to go kill the Vice President's brother, and this time he chooses not to go. He just puts out his cigarette, kinda grinds it under his heel, turns around and walks away. And you never even _see_ Michael. I think for a show that's really played a lot with choices and consequences, it might be a really cool way of going out."_

~ Wentworth Miller, Paley Fest, 2008

* * *

_No matter how far you have gone on the wrong road, turn back._

~ Turkish Proverb

* * *

If he was asked to define Hell on Earth at this exact moment, Michael Scofield thinks, he would be tempted to simply wave a weary hand at his current situation. Then again, he's thought he was going to die at least three times in the last ten minutes, so maybe he's not the best one to judge.

Sweats drips into his eyes, making them sting, and each pounding step sends a quiver of agony through his calf muscles. As the footsteps over his shoulder grow closer and closer, he sucks in another desperate lungful of oxygen, pushing himself even harder, because he has no intention of letting his tormentor win this particular battle.

Five minutes later, he's bent over at the waist, his hands on his hips, gulping in as much air as his lungs will hold. The hearty slap on the back nearly knocks him off-balance, but the familiar jibe that follows is enough to make him pull himself upright.

"That desk job's gonna be the death of you, man."

"On the contrary," Michael gasps as he unceremoniously grabs the bottle of water from his brother's hand and downs half of it in one gulp. "You seem to be the one intent on killing me."

Lincoln's snort is muffled in cotton as he pulls up his t-shirt by the hem to wipe his face, displaying a set of ludicrously well-defined stomach muscles. "It's for your own good." Letting his damp shirt fall back into place, he reaches out and reclaims the half-empty bottle of water from Michael's hand. "You'd do nothing but watch DVDs and eat pizza all weekend if I didn't drag your ass outside."

The thought of food at this point makes him feel vaguely nauseous, but he can't resist the urge to defend himself against his brother's customary lecture. "Give me a break, will you? I work fourteen hours a day." Except for today, of course, he thinks, but there's no need to dwell on semantics.

"That's no excuse." Lincoln grins as he slaps him on the back a second time. "Healthy body, healthy mind."

"Says the guy who consumes beer and nachos each weekend like they're both endangered species," Michael shoots back mildly. They're walking slowly along the river's edge now, and he's glad of the opportunity to let his heart rate return to something resembling normality. The one Friday this month he's managed to leave the office before eight o'clock, and he spends it running through Chicago with an exercise Nazi. So much for that elevated IQ his shrink used to talk so much about. "Save the slogans for the poor slobs who actually pay you to torture them, will you?"

"Family gets tortured for free, you know that." His brother's grin widens. "The slogans are just an added bonus."

In a companionable silence, they walk to the back street where they'd parked their cars. Lincoln's SUV is mud-splashed and in desperate need of a new paint job, making Michael's gleaming black Audi look even more pristine. The thing is, though, he can't think of one lasting memory of any particular time he's spent in his car, while the sight of Lincoln's battered transport instantly conjures up visions of barbecues and spontaneous trips to the beach. An odd longing tugs somewhere deep in his chest at the thought, but he pushes it aside.

Just like he always does.

The sun finally starts to dip towards the horizon as he pulls the car keys from the pocket of his sweatpants, the heat of the Chicago summer day finally waning. After rifling through the gym bag on the front seat of his car, Lincoln strips off his t-shirt and replaces it with another that looks identical, only dry. "You coming to the game with LJ and me tomorrow?"

Not a fan of stripping off half his clothes in public, Michael contents himself with patting his face and neck dry with his gym towel. "Can't."

"Why not?"

He looks at his brother, making no attempt to hide his lack of enthusiasm. "I'm going to a wedding, remember?"

"Shit, that's right." Lincoln tosses his gym bag onto the front passenger seat of the SUV. "Who's getting married? The boss' daughter?"

"The boss' son," Michael corrects automatically. "At the Ritz-Carlton."

Lincoln's face contorts into a mocking expression that Veronica likes to call his _la dee dah_ face. "Fancy."

Michael sighs, dangling his car keys from one finger. "Yes, I'm sure it will be a laugh a minute."

His brother shakes his head as he gazes at him over the top of the Audi. "Why are you going if you hate the idea so much?"

"It's the unwritten rule of business, apparently," Michael says dryly. "If your boss invites you to his offspring's wedding, you buy a present from the registry and you put on a monkey suit and you turn up and toast the bride and groom until your face hurts from smiling like an idiot."

Lincoln chuckles. "Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do, right?"

Wondering if his brother ever grew tired of looking out for the preening clientele who frequented his own place of work, Michael gives him a weary smile. "I guess so."

"How about Sunday? We could catch a movie."

Michael hesitates. It's not that he doesn't like spending time with his brother, it's just that sometimes there is other stuff he needs to do. "Uh, I'm working at the shelter."

Lincoln smiles. "You work too much."

Michael knows his brother appreciates any time spent at the homeless youth shelter makes up the most rewarding hours of his whole week, but he still feels the need to justify himself. "The shelter isn't work."

"I know that." Still smiling, Lincoln gently taps the roof of the Audi with his knuckles. "Thanks for the run, man. Drive safe."

"You, too. Say hi to Vee and LJ for me."

"Will do."

He lets the SUV pull away first, and as he watches it get smaller and smaller in his rear view mirror, he becomes uncomfortably aware of something burning hard in his chest, something that feels a lot like envy. After a week doing a job he enjoys, his brother is driving home to the woman he loves and the son he adores.

Whereas he –

Michael turns the key in the ignition with an almost savage flick of his wrist. Whereas he's spent the week doing a job that no longer interests him and is going home to an empty apartment to pick out a suit and tie to wear to the wedding of two people he's met precisely three times in his life. Oh, and because he's a stubborn ass who refuses to risk actually having a good time, according to Veronica, he'll be going alone.

The burning sensation tightening his chest hollows out, leaving him feeling more than a little restless. As weekends go, this definitely isn't one to be written in the annals of history. Maybe if he's lucky, he thinks with a humourless smile, the bride will leave the groom standing at the altar and save him from six hours of making small talk.

He sighs, already mentally flicking through his collection of ties and cocktail party anecdotes, because no one could be that lucky.

* * *

"It's six o'clock."

Sara Tancredi keeps her eyes trained squarely on the patient file lying open on the desk in front of her. She's read it twice already this afternoon, but at least it keeps her from having to deal with Katie's reproachful gaze. "I know."

"It's Friday night."

"I know that, too."

She hears the determined scrape of Katie's chair as she tucks it neatly under the nurses' workstation. "You wanna go out and hit the town?"

Sara smiles as she turns another page. Next Tuesday will mark her fourth sobriety anniversary, but she doesn't feel like sharing that particular tidbit with anyone right now. "I'm pretty sure my 'hitting the town' days are far behind me."

"Seriously, though, the kids are at my sister's tonight." Katie casts her a hopeful glance. "How about grabbing a bite to eat?"

Sara hesitates, thinking of the meagre contents of her refrigerator. She hasn't been inspired to do any grocery shopping in over a week, and the thought of going home to milk and half a loaf of bread isn't appealing. "That would be great, as long as we make it an early night." Her face threatens to twitch into a grimace, but she manages to squelch the impulse. "I've got Rebecca's wedding tomorrow afternoon, and knowing her family, it will probably go on and on until the small hours of eternity."

Katie moves around the office, opening and closing drawers, then locking the drug cabinet with the faint jingle of keys. "Did you find a dress to wear?"

"Yep."

"What's it like?"

"It's green," Sara answers distractedly, trying to reconcile up her last patient's blood work with his claim he was suffering glandular fever and needed to be moved to the SHU. He'd been lying, of course, she thinks, suppressing a sigh, just like the patient before him and the one before that. She tries to remember a time when she didn't expect her patients to lie to her every time they opened their mouths, but that would mean remembering life before Fox River Penitentiary, and there are some days when it feels as though she's never worked anywhere else. "Oh, and I got it on sale," she offers in a pleased addendum. Looking up, she catches the tail end of the smirk Katie is trying to hide. "What?"

The other woman shakes her head as she slides the last of the inmates' medical histories into the filing cabinet. "I don't know exactly how a Governor's daughter is _supposed_ to shop for her clothes, but I'm pretty sure she's not supposed to care about paying full price."

"I like good clothes," Sara says crisply. "I just don't think I need to spend a huge amount of money on them because I was lucky enough to have a trust fund."

Katie chuckles under her breath, then heads towards the coat stand in the corner of the room. "It is now six fifteen," she announces in a voice that brokers no dissent. "You wanna get out of here?"

Sara hesitates, then flips the patient file shut, admitting defeat. She knows only too well that Katie won't be leaving here without her, and she just doesn't have the energy to argue today. "Yes, please."

Katie smiles triumphantly, and plucks the patient file from the desk. A few minutes later, Sara is flicking off the lights and saying goodnight to the late shift staff, and letting Katie steer her through the system of security doors that take them back into the real world.

They end up at a small Italian café fifteen minutes drive from Fox River. They've never been here before, but the place claims to serve Chicago's best deep dish pizza. Of course, that's a claim made by almost every Italian place in Chicago, but it's been a long week, the food smells good and the café's air-conditioning is a welcome relief from the heat of the day. After they order - Katie flirting cheerfully with the twenty-something waiter – Sara takes a long sip of her soda and leans back in her chair, pleased she allowed herself to be talked into eating out tonight.

"So, who's your date for the wedding?"

_Then again_, Sara thinks dryly, _every pleasurable experience has a downside._ "My what?"

"Your date?" Katie looks at her, obviously an inch away from rolling her eyes. "For the wedding," she adds slowly, as though Sara is suddenly having trouble understanding English.

Sara feels a slither of heat creep up the back of her neck, but there's no way out of this conversation but the truth. "Uh, my dad?"

"I'm sorry? Can you repeat that?" The other woman leans forward, propping her elbows on the table. "For a minute there, I thought you said you were taking your dad as your date to this thing."

"I did." Sara swirls her glass, watching the melting ice turn in slow circles. "I've known Rebecca since the first grade. Dad's been friends with her father forever, so he got an invite too."

"You didn't think that maybe you could take along a real date?"

Sara shrugs. "I didn't want to have to make conversation with some guy I barely know as well as deal with four hours of speeches, so it made sense to go with Dad." Even to her own ears, the explanation sounds more than a little pathetic, and she's not surprised when Katie looks as though she's tempted to say any number of things. Thankfully, her friend merely reaches for a complimentary breadstick.

"Gonna be hard to meet a nice suit with your dad looking over your shoulder."

It had been obviously too much to hope that she wasn't going to hear this particular lecture this evening. "I'm not going to this wedding to meet anyone."

"More's the pity," Katie mumbles under her breath, then clears her throat. "Tell me more about your dress." She wriggles her eyebrows. "Will your father approve of it?"

Sara thinks of the simple (but hopefully elegant) dress she'd bought two days earlier, and wonders if Katie is happily picturing a slinky sheath designed to lure a potential mate. "I hate to disappoint you, but he probably will."

Her friend sighs heavily as she reaches for her own glass of soda. "Maybe it's just as well you're not on the lookout for a nice guy, then."

Sara can't help smiling. No matter how many times the subject changes, it seems that the topic of conversation always manages to come back to the same thing. "You know me. I don't like nice guys."

Katie points her half-eaten bread stick across the table. "Oh, I know you, trust me. I'm totally onto you, girl." Her friend's dimples flash as she grins. "I know you're only working at Fox River so you can have your pick of all the bad boys in Chicago."

Sara chuckles as she tries and fails to think of one inmate or colleague for whom she'd cross that particular line. "I'll tell you one thing, Katie. If I ever do find one of those nice guys you keep talking about, it's not going to be inside Fox River."

Katie shakes her head. "Poor Bradley."

"He'll get over it," Sara says, wondering why she suddenly feels as though she's kicking a puppy. _Some puppy_, she thinks wryly.

"I don't know. It's been four years and he's still carrying the same damn torch he was clutching when he first met you."

Sara fights the urge to squirm. She's seen both the best and the worst of Bradley Bellick, CO, over the last four years, and she has to admit she's disinclined to believe the two sides can peacefully coexist. He'd been nice enough to help her source an interview at Fox River, but like so many things in life, his kindness had come adorned with expectations she just couldn't meet. Their relationship, such as it was, had gone steadily downhill since her first gentle rebuff of his dinner invitation. "Some people only want what they think they can't have," she says lightly, knowing she may as well be speaking of herself.

The arrival of their appetisers brings a welcome break from the subject of Brad Bellick and Sara's lack of social life, but the damage is already done. As Katie picks up her fork to start on her Caesar salad, Sara looks down at the generous pile of fried calamari on her own plate and tries to summon up the appetite that had been clamouring to be appeased only a few minutes earlier. Normally, Katie's teasing rolls over her like water off a duck's back, as her mom used to say, but tonight, her friend's words have managed to impart a lingering sense of gloom. She picks up her fork, then reaches for the safest subject she knows. "How are the kids?"

Katie accepts the diversionary tactic with a knowing smile, but thankfully launches into an animated tale of her six year-old daughter's recent attempt to convince her mother that she was, in fact, a tiger in disguise and therefore didn't need to attend school. "She had it all worked out," Katie chuckles. "Even asked me to cook her steak extra rare and everything."

Sara grins. "How did that work out?"

"Let's just say it seems there are some tigers that prefer dessert to raw steak."

Sara is home by nine o'clock, and as she locks her front door, she's conscious of the silence in her apartment in a way she hasn't been in a long time. She thinks of her occasional visits to Katie's home, and the way her family life imbues the house itself with energy even when the children are outside playing in the yard. She normally treasures the sanctuary of her quiet apartment after a week of the kind of rough noises and angry voices that only a prison environment can provide, but tonight it feels empty rather than peaceful.

_It's that damned wedding tomorrow_, she decides as she dumps her purse on the couch and goes to the kitchen in search of a glass of cold water. She's never really been a fan of society weddings, and is even less of one now that she's clean. There's nothing like spending several hours watching other people get drunk to remind you that alcohol can be one of life's great social dividers.

It's definitely not because she had her thirtieth birthday eight weeks ago and hasn't had a proper date since she was two weeks shy of turning twenty-nine. It can't be because the thought of watching one of her oldest friends marry a man she obviously adores makes _her_ feel as though she's somehow failed because she hasn't hit the same milestone in her own life. And it can't be because the only man to tell her she looks pretty in her new dress tomorrow will probably be her father, something that was just fine when she was fourteen but not quite as satisfying now she's thirty.

Finishing her water, she deposits the glass on the side of the kitchen sink with a unnecessarily loud _clink_. That's one of the few drawbacks to living alone, she decides. There always seems to be far too much time to _think_ about things far more than she should.

Flicking off the kitchen light, she makes her way to the bathroom to wash her face clean of the minimal makeup she always wears to work. As she pulls her hair back into a messy ponytail, she thinks of the ease with which Katie had bantered with their waiter tonight, while she'd just buried her own nose in her menu. Nose in the menu, head in the sand, she thinks darkly.

Okay, fine. She's got her own personal demons under control. So far, so good. But now what? Does she hide herself away for the rest of eternity to make sure she doesn't slip and fall? Does she have to wait another year before she has a date with a halfway decent human being who doesn't turn out to be a political fanboy intent on making buddies with her dad or a deceptively normal guy who turns out to be an idiot who drools over the thought of her working behind bars?

_Damn it, Katie. Why did you have to go and open up this old can of worms all over again?_ Gripping the edge of the bathroom sink, Sara takes a deep breath, sending a silent apology to her friend. Her current state of mind certainly isn't Katie's fault.

Okay. She won't hide herself away this weekend. She can do this. Tomorrow, she'll put her new dress and go to the church and listen to her father as he murmurs society gossip in her ear and put in an appearance at the reception and toast the bride and groom with club soda as long as polite manners demand. Then she'll come home, change into her sweats and watch television until she's tired enough to fall into bed.

Alone.

As usual.

"Damn it."

Enough of this pity party, she decides. Being clean and sober is one of the exhilarating achievements of her life, and she's proud of the work she does every single day at Fox River. She argues every day with her father, but she knows he loves her as much as she loves him. She has a few trusted, treasured friends and enough acquaintances to field a friendly game of football if she so desires.

_So why_, she thinks as she stares at her pale face in the mirror, _does she suddenly feel as though it - this series of events she knows as her life - is no longer enough?_

Averting her gaze from her reflection, she splashes her face with cool water, then reaches for her face wash. _It's been too long a week to start thinking like this_, she tells herself. She's just tired and in need of a holiday. She needs some sun and some sand, maybe even a couple of Shirley Temples on the beach. She closes her eyes as she scrubs her face, mentally flipping through her roster for the next few weeks, and already knows that a holiday is going to have to wait.

She turns off her bedroom light just before ten, leaving her windows open in deference to the heat and an air-conditioner that's seen better days. As she lies in the darkness, she hears the sound of a nearby party, the faint echo of music and laughter, and she suddenly has the absurd sense that she's lying alone in a glass dome, separated from the rest of the city. She punches her pillow hard, then rolls onto her side, turning her back to the window.

Maybe she'll join a book club on Monday.


	2. Chapter 2

"Tell me again why you didn't want to take Alison as your date?"

Michael tucks the phone between his shoulder and chin as he searches for the black socks he knows he'd put on the end of his bed only a few minutes earlier, wishing he'd had the foresight not to answer this particular call. "Because I barely know her."

Veronica sighs loudly in his ear. "I hate to break this to you, Michael, but that's what dating is for. To get to know people."

He literally feels his eyes roll towards the back of his head. He loves Veronica, but there are times when he wonders how she and Lincoln haven't killed each other. "I know you and my brother like to think of me as some kind of idiot savant when it comes to dating, but I do know how the process works."

There's a faintly horrified pause, and his mouth curves in a satisfied smile. He wasn't planning on divulging the fact he'd overhead them discussing his lack of social life a few weeks earlier when they thought he was out of earshot, but Veronica's reaction is worth the disclosure. "Ah." She doesn't apologise - he wasn't expecting to hear one, to be honest - but instead clears her throat loudly. "Well, you still have a few hours up your sleeve. If you called her right now, she'd probably still go with you."

_And that,_ he thinks, _is precisely why I won't be calling her._ He's met Alison three times, twice for after-work drinks and once at a softball game, always in the company of Lincoln and Veronica and a horde of other people. She's one of Veronica's colleagues, an environmental lawyer, and she's attractive and vivacious and intelligent. Unfortunately, it had only taken those three meetings to realise that the things that seem to interest her the most - his car, his job, his loft - are exactly the things that matter the least as far as he's concerned. "I know she's your friend-"

"Actually, I don't know her all that well," Veronica interjects mildly. "She's only been living in Chicago for a few months. I just thought I'd try to introduce her to some interesting men." Having located his neatly rolled socks, he waits for the disclaimer he knows is coming. He doesn't have to wait too long. "But she seems to like you better than those guys, though."

Not for the first time, Michael marvels at the uneasy juxtaposition of being grateful for lifetime friends who are comfortable in speaking their mind and the resulting resentment that only such friends can provoke. Feeling faintly cornered, he answers just as bluntly. "She likes the person she thinks I am."

"Whatever you say." Her tone is suddenly soothing; her best lawyer's mediation voice, he thinks.

"Vee, I'm not planning on spending any more time at the reception than is necessary," he tells her, wondering if she and Lincoln plan their niggling in advance or if it's just something that comes naturally to them. Either way, there are times when it's no longer endearing and simply annoying. Times like today, for instance. "It wouldn't be fair to take a date and then expect her to leave before the happy couple have even cut the cake."

She laughs at that, and he knows he's finally off the hook. "So, did you just ring to bitch at me about not taking a date or did you actually want to talk to me about something?"

"We're having a July 4th barbecue next weekend," she tells him. "Your brother wants to break in his new propane monster."

Michael feels his eyes widen. "He finally got rid of the rusting old piece of junk?" Lincoln's attachment to the second-hand barbecue grill he'd bought three years ago at a yard sale was a running gag in their family. For the last three years it has been the crappiest yet hardest-working barbecue in Chicago, and Michael is honestly surprised he'd given up on it.

"He had to," Veronica says, laughter darting through her words. "It split in two the last time he used it."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. Metal casing cracked right down the middle."

Michael allows himself a smile. He's spent the last twelve months telling his brother that his relic of a barbecue was being held together by grease and determination, and he has to admit, it's nice to be vindicated once in a while. "Sure, I'll be there." He pauses, frowning, suddenly sensing the quivering springs of a trap set to snap shut. "Wait, who else are you inviting?"

"I'm not inviting Alison, if that's what you're asking." She pauses, then he hears her sigh. "Well, not _now_, anyway."

He laughs. He can't help it. Veronica is never anything less than determined, which probably explains why she's still putting up with his brother. "Thanks for the invite, I'd love to come." He glances at his watch. There are still a couple of hours until he needs to get ready, and he plans on spending them sacked out on the couch. "Right now, though, I have to go."

"Sure. Have a good time tonight." He hears the smile in her voice. "Just don't get drunk and misbehave."

"As if I would."

There's a small, loaded pause at the other end of the phone line, and he finds himself holding his breath. It doesn't happen very often, thank God, but every now and then he feels the memory of that night - the night that everything changed - humming in the air between them. "We'll see you next weekend," she finally says, her tone light, and he lets out his breath. "Saturday afternoon, any time after three, okay?"

"Sure. Thanks, Vee."

A short time later, he gazes unseeingly at the television screen over the top of his feet, which are propped up on the coffee table, and can't help wondering what would have happened that night four years ago if he hadn't answered his brother's frantic call to his cell phone.

* * *

"You look beautiful, sweetheart."

"Thank you." Sara smiles at her father as she gathers up her small purse from the coffee table. "You look pretty dapper yourself."

_Dapper_ had been one of her mother's favourite words, and her father's answering smile is more than a little misty. He smoothes one hand down the front of his double-breasted dark blue suit, then straightens his bright red tie. "Been a while since I wore this suit." He pats the rounded curve of his stomach, his expression rueful. "Put on a little more weight than I thought."

He has, there's no denying it, but she merely gives him a reassuring smile. "You look very handsome." Which he does, even with the extra weight.

"Are you ready to go?"

"Yes." _Finally_, she thinks dryly. She's never been married, but she can't help thinking that almost as much preparation is required when one is a guest, rather than the bride. The whole process has proved somewhat exhausting, and she's already looking forward to slipping into her sweats and watching some late-night television, her resolve of the night before seeming to have faded in the face of several hours primping and preening.

Her father assesses her security system with a critical eye - she locks the door from the outside after pulling it shut – but thankfully says nothing. Perhaps, she thinks with a sudden spark of mischief, he's remembering their last conversation on the topic of her choice of apartment. Maybe one day she'll move to an apartment building with a doorman and swipe cards and windows that don't open, but right now she can't think of anywhere she'd least like to live. Where she would _most_ like to live, she doesn't know, she muses as she follows her father to where his driver is waiting outside. What she _does_ know is that she wants space to breathe, with the sky wide above her and the ground warming her feet through the soles of her shoes.

The afternoon heat presses against her skin as they step outside her apartment building, and she decides she chose her dress well. The light matching stole will be welcome later in the evening, but right now she's glad of her bare shoulders and arms. Two men are waiting at the car for them; the black-suited bodyguard is unfamiliar to her, but she knows the other man quite well. She smiles at her father's driver as he opens the car door for her. "Thanks, Joseph. It's been a while - how _are_ you?"

"Good afternoon, Miss Tancredi." The silver-headed man smiles. "I can't complain."

_You could,_ she thinks, _but my father would probably have you transferred to garden detail._ "It's going to be a good day to be in the air-conditioning, I think."

"I think you're right."

Once she and her father are installed in the back of the car, the Cadillac purrs away from the curb, and she allows herself to sink into the luxurious leather seat. It's been several months since she found herself in one of her father's official cars, and a few minutes later, she remembers why.

"Have you given any more thought to my suggestion?"

She bites back a sigh. "Which suggestion are we talking about?" She slates him a sideways glance, conscious of thin glass separating them from Joseph and her father's official watcher for the day. "That I should hand in my resignation to Henry Pope, or go on a date with that pompous intern from your office?"

Frank Tancredi blows out an exasperated sigh of his own. "You're wasting your time with those cons, sweetheart."

Ah, so it's going to be this argument today, she thinks. Just what she needs on a sunny Saturday afternoon. "I don't think I am."

"There's not a man among them who wouldn't put a knife to your throat if given half a chance."

Her French manicured-nails curl into her palms. "Don't you think that's something of an over-generalisation?"

"It's not a career, sweetheart. Not like you could have had at Chicago General. They were willing to take you back."

She looks at him, wondering if she'll ever make him understand she can't afford to delve into her past if she's to stop herself making the same mistakes over and over again. "Only after you bullied them into it." He opens his mouth - no doubt to argue – and she quickly puts her hand on his arm. "Thanks for your concern, Dad, but I'm happy where I am." The rest of the drive passes in a silence that is all too familiar, an unhappy blend of disappointment and resentment, and Sara feels something inside her wilt and fade.

Thankfully, the church is only a twenty minute drive from her apartment. It hadn't surprised her when she'd seen the chosen venue for the ceremony on the invitation - Rebecca always had enjoyed making an impression – but even so the sight of the soaring gothic spires of the church leave her momentarily speechless as the car pulls up to the curb. She smiles a _thank you_ at Joseph as she climbs out the door he's just opened, careful to keep the hem of her knee-length dress from riding up. Tucking her purse under her arm, she tilts back her head to admire the gleaming pale lines of the church against the blue sky. Her father's hand on her elbow is faintly impatient, but she easily resists the urge to shake it off. She has a much better rejoinder in mind.

"By the way, Dad?"

"What?"

She waves to one of the bride's cousins, then turns to her father. "It's called a _shiv_, not a knife." She allows herself a moment to enjoy his flummoxed expression, then slips her hand through his arm. "Shall we?"

* * *

He'd forgotten just how hard it is to find a parking space in this part of town. Checking his watch again, Michael makes yet another u-turn, finally finding a spot a block away from his destination.

He hastily makes his way towards the church, his gait slowing as he draws closer to the centuries-old building. Although he's driven through this area of town many times, he's never been this close to St Alphonsus before, and now he knows why it's often described as one of Chicago's best examples of gothic architecture. The rather ordinary concrete circular driveway does nothing to detract from the quiet beauty of the structure itself, and he finds himself moving closer as if on auto-pilot.

He climbs the stone steps from street level to the actual grounds of the church, his gaze avidly devouring every curve and jut of the building that seems to rise up out of the ground and reach for the sky like an organic creature. Vaguely aware that the groom and his best man are having their photograph taken only a few feet to his right - the photographer is issuing instructions in a professionally cajoling tone - he carefully diverts his course so as not to disturb proceedings.

He's annoyed he didn't think to bring his own camera, not to capture the ceremony but the church itself, so that he might study it in private in the more comfortable environment of his living room. After a few minutes of feasting his gaze on the building's every tiny nook and cranny, he reluctantly pulls his attention back to the task at hand.

There's still a small crowd milling outside the front entrance to the church, despite the smiling efforts of the ushers to direct people inside. A good number of them are hastily grinding out cigarette butts under their heels and popping sticks of gum. The groom and his black-suited attendants finally enter the church, no doubt to congregate nervously near the altar, and Michael smiles at the sight of the young ring-bearer putting up a last minute show of rebellion, the boy's small heels drumming against the best man's stomach as he's lifted up and carried away to join the rest of the groom's party.

"Hey, Michael."

Two guys from his office are walking towards him, both of them towing beautifully dressed dates in their wakes. He can't remember the last time he had a conversation with either of them that lasted more than a minute, but he's suddenly pleased that he won't be walking into the church alone. He nods and smiles his way through the introductions, knowing that not even momentarily feeling like a fifth wheel will make him regret not asking Alison to come with him. The banter between these guys and their dates is easy and relaxed, something he hadn't enjoyed with Vee's colleague, whose every word and glance had felt loaded with an expectation he had no interest in meeting.

The conversation turns to tomorrow's game as they make their way towards the entrance of the church, and Michael takes a final moment to study the grand archway that surrounds them. Glancing over his shoulder, his gaze is snagged by the arrival of a gleaming black Cadillac. It's the latest model, he notes as it glides into the driveway, and it's only the third or fourth one he's seen so far on the street. The car comes to a halt, then two men alight from the front of the car, a grey-haired driver wearing a chauffeur's cap and a thick-necked guy with dark glasses and a studied _back off_ attitude. Curious, Michael slows his step, wondering which wedding guest would warrant such an arrival.

The man who emerges from the back of the car is more than a little familiar, but Michael can't for the moment place his face. He's perhaps sixty years old, wearing a double-breasted suit that doesn't quite conceal the weight he's carrying through the middle, but he holds himself like a man confident in his place in the world. _Politician_, Michael's brain whispers, then the driver opens the other door. A smiling woman emerges in a graceful swish of long limbs and swinging, bright hair, and Michael feels the ground shift beneath his feet.

The gothic splendour of the building behind him fades into obscurity as he stares at her, his pulse suddenly kicking into high gear. He's experienced physical attraction many times before, but it has never once arrived like a slap to the face or a punch to the solar plexus. Nor did it ever make him feel as though his tongue was suddenly too big for his mouth, and if he tried to speak only garbled nonsense would emerge. He finds himself mentally appraising her, perhaps in a futile attempt to explain the reason why he suddenly feels as though his bones have turned to half-set jello.

She's tall, and wearing a pair of towering black heels that would bring her almost eye to eye with him, should he be lucky enough to find himself that close to her. Her dress is forest green, a colour he's always liked, with a tight bodice and flowing skirt that reaches her knees, leaving her pale arms and shoulders bare. Her hair falls down her back in a soft tumble of auburn waves, and even from this distance he can see the glittering hairclip at her left temple. She's willowy, her arms slender, but the simple dress does nothing to hide the curve of her hips or the swell of her breasts. As he watches, she smiles brightly at the silver-haired driver, and Michael is suddenly filled with the urge to kick the man in the shins.

Jesus. Where had _that_ come from?

"Michael!"

Later, he will wonder how many times John had said his name before he'd answered him. He reluctantly looks away from the woman in the green dress, uncomfortably aware that his palms are damp and his shirt collar feels too tight. "Sorry, what?"

John looks amused. "Are you going to sit with us, man, or would you rather stay out here?"

"Uh, yeah, sure. Sorry."

John looks over Michael's shoulder, squinting into the afternoon sun as he follows the line of his gaze. "Hey, isn't that Governor Tancredi?"

The name and the face click together like a puzzle in Michael's head. That explains why the guy had been so familiar. Frontier Justice Frank, Illinois' most hardline Governor in decades. He clears his throat, knowing he probably shouldn't ask, but he's going to ask anyway. "Do you know who the woman is?"

John shrugs. "Beats me. His wife died years ago. Maybe that's his date?" His colleague chuckles, obviously impressed. "That old dog."

A sour feeling settles in the pit of Michael's stomach, a sensation that only worsens when he turns to see the red-haired woman link her arm through the Governor's and give him a warm smile. He swallows hard, but the unsettled feeling remains. _Idiot_, he tells himself. "Yeah, maybe."

He turns his back on the couple, following John and the others into the cool interior of the church, barely noticing the ornate ceiling and stained glass windows. Lincoln often teases him about being the one with the perfect timing and the perfectly planned life, but it seems this is one occasion where he's definitely in the right place at the wrong time.

* * *

The air inside the church thick with the mingled scents of perfume and aftershave and incense, but it's not the air that's making Sara's eyes tingle. For all the solemn rites and prayers being observed, the sight of the soon-to-be bride and groom smiling at each other as they meet at the altar still sends a rush of wistful joy through her.

The woman to her left is already dabbing her eyes daintily on a linen handkerchief, a pure white scrap of material Sara suspects may have cost almost as much as her 'on-sale' dress. Shifting restlessly on the hard wooden pew, she tilts her head, trying to see past the wide-brimmed designer hat of the woman sitting in front of her. Both women had greeted her father with barely concealed predatory enthusiasm, and she'd watched his eyes brighten and chest swell in response. They're the type of woman her mother had despised, all brittle smiles and gleaming nails and sharp tongues, but Sara reminds herself that her father has been alone for a long time, and it's not for her to judge his taste in female admirers.

He leans towards her now, his face flushed as he fans himself with his program. "Why they had to get married on the hottest day of the year, I'll never know."

She hides her smile. It's relatively cool inside the church, but her father has never been a fan of the summer heat. She's quite sure that, if he had his way, he would have happily passed a by-law making all July weddings illegal. "It'll be fine once we get to the hotel."

She smoothes one hand over the program resting on her thigh, resisting the urge to check her watch. It's been a while since she's been to a Catholic wedding, and she'd forgotten how much longer the ceremony can be. There are prayers, then a sermon, then more prayers, then Rebecca and Mark are finally exchanging their vows. Her friend sounds nervous, her soft voice almost lost in the marble cavern of the church, but she recites her vows perfectly and with a quiet determination that has Sara's eyes welling up with tears.

Rummaging in her clutch purse for a tissue, she has the sudden sensation of being watched. It's not a new feeling, by any means - being Frank Tancredi's daughter and one of the few women working in an all-male prison, she's used to being watched - but nevertheless she turns her head. The congregation behind her is avidly studying the bride and groom, and for a few second she thinks she must have imagined it, then her gaze meets that of a dark-haired man sitting across the aisle, two rows back, and the bottom drops out of her stomach. He's studying her with an intensity that reminds her of the way her father watches the televised Presidential debates, a single-minded focus that shuts out everything else, and she feels a blush steal across her cheeks and throat.

Her fingers fumble with the tissue she's just fished from her purse, and she's grateful for the distraction. She scoops the tissue from where it had fallen at her feet, then glances over her shoulder once again, vaguely hoping the impact of the stranger's stare will have lessened. The man's gaze drops to her lips, then back up to her eyes. His gaze locks with hers for a few endless seconds, then he smiles, one side of his wide mouth quirking upwards, and her new dress suddenly feels two sizes too small for her.

Uh, so that would be a _no_.

Turning back to face the altar, she gives herself a mental shake, but the memory of those eyes - she doesn't know if they were green or blue, only that she'd never seen eyes like that before - won't leave her. She shoves her unused tissue into her purse, then shifts in her seat, her elbow knocking against her father's arm. "You okay?"

The nape of her neck is tingling, and she knows that guy – whoever the hell he is – is still looking at her. "Just a little warm," she murmurs, then the choir bursts into song to herald the newlyweds' walk down the aisle, and she's spared any further explanation.

The guests spill from the church row by row in an orderly fashion, and while she tells herself she won't look to her left as she and her father make their way to the front entrance, of course she does. To her disappointment, she can't find him in the sea of faces, and then she wonders why on earth she feels so deflated. He's just a guy who smiled at her, after all.

_Yeah, right. And this wedding reception will just be a simple affair with a few close friends_, she thinks as that strange, breathless feeling darts through her chest once again.

Outside the church, her father waits until she's found two old school friends before he leaves her to talk business with the father of the bride, something she knows he's been itching to do ever since they arrived. Sara does her best to concentrate on the conversations swirling around her - babies and jobs and the economy and the recent death of an elderly favourite teacher – but her gaze wanders, flicking through the small groups of people dotted around the church, looking for one particular face. When she finds him, her breath seems to shudder in her chest, and the conversation around her fades like a poorly tuned radio.

He's talking to the groom and the best man, shaking their hands in turn, white teeth flashing against his olive skin as he smiles at something the best man is saying. He's tall and lean, his dark hair shaved almost to the scalp, a look that should be at odds with his designer clothes but instead makes every other man in the vicinity look faintly over-groomed. She's never been one to particularly notice a man's hands, but as he gestures gracefully to make some point in his conversation, she thinks she might make an exception in this case.

"Sara, I'm _so_ glad you could come."

The bride descends on her in a swirl of vintage cream satin and chiffon, tugging her thoughts back to the real reason she's here today, and Sara hugs her tightly, careful not to bestow any unwanted lipstick on her friend's cheek. "You look beautiful."

Her friend's eyes sparkle as she performs a slow turn. "I'm the product of six hours work by a team of four hard-working professionals and two bridesmaids. If I ever have the chance to walk down the red carpet in LA, I'll be well-prepared."

Sara chuckles. "Well, you only get married once, so you should totally make the most of it."

Rebecca gives her a complicit smile - her parents had separated a few months after the Tancredis' divorce had become final - and nods across the church grounds to her new husband. "I'm not planning on doing this with anyone else anytime soon, trust me."

"Uh, do you know the man who is talking to Mark?" There's a breathless quality to her voice she truly hopes her friend is too exhilarated to notice. "The one in the dark grey suit?"

"The guy with the buzz cut?" Rebecca studies the man talking to her husband, then turns back to Sara. "I don't know his name, but it looks like he's hanging out with the Middleton, Maxwell & Schaum people, so I guess he works for my father-in-law." The new bride makes a face. "Wow, that sounds so strange. Do you think I'll ever get used to saying that?"

Sara is saved from answering by the arrival of the bride's aunt and cousin, who gather Rebecca into their arms with familial confidence, telling her it's time for photographs. Her friend laughs as she gives Sara a hurried goodbye, saying she'll see her at the reception. As soon as Rebecca departs, Frank Tancredi reappears, his small talk with Rebecca's father evidently interrupted by the need for family photographs. "Reception starts at six," he tells her, as though worried she'd neglected to actually read her own copy of the wedding invitiation. "We should get going."

She scans the milling guests as discreetly as possible, but just as she had in the church, she's lost sight of the dark-haired stranger. "What's the rush?" she asks lightly. "It will only take us thirty minutes to reach the hotel, won't it?"

Her father glances towards the driveway, and she realises with a start that his car is already there, waiting. "You know how it works, sweetheart. Reynolds will need to do a security sweep and I'll need to check in with the office on the way."

She bites back an irritated sigh. Not for the first time, she wants to ask her father if he misses the days when he wasn't constantly surrounded by bodyguards and minions. After all, she can barely remember such a time, and yet _she_ misses them. "Sure, okay."

She lets him lead her to the car, his hand beneath her elbow. Once again she smiles at Joseph, but this time it feels strained. She suddenly wants very much to tell her father she'll hitch a ride to the Ritz-Carlton with one of her school friends, but she squelches the impulse. A good-looking man had smiled at her, but that wasn't a good enough reason to ditch her father and risk having to take a taxi through the late afternoon traffic. Misreading her hesitation, her father sighs. "You can talk to your friends at the reception," he murmurs, not bothering to hide his impatience, and she suddenly feels as though she's ten years old and being ushered away from a birthday party.

Sara presses her lips into a tight line - she refuses to spoil her memory of this day with all the things she'd like to say right now - and steps into the backseat of her father's air-conditioned luxury car. The door shuts behind her with an oddly familiar, heavy _thunk_, and it's only as they pull away from the church that she realises why it was familiar. In a brief moment of abrupt, unwelcome clarity, the sound had reminded her of the gates of Fox River.


	3. Chapter 3

_Okay_, Michael thinks as he watches the Cadillac sweep out of the church driveway, _so that hadn't gone as well as he might have liked. The point is that it could have been worse_.

He knows now that her eyes are hazel, and she blushes very prettily. He also knows that she cries at weddings (possibly only at some weddings, not all of them) and seems to be a friend of the bride, rather than the groom. Now all he needs to find out is if he's going to be beaten up by the Governor's bodyguard if he tries to speak to her at the reception. He could ask around, but he really doesn't want to start more conversations on the subject than necessary. There is someone, he decides, who would be able to tell him quickly and quietly exactly how much of his time he'd be wasting, but getting that person alone might prove difficult.

"Michael, we're going to have a few drinks in the bar at the hotel before the reception starts." It's John and his friends, obviously eager to be on their way. "You in?"

"Uh, sure." He quickly glances around the scattered guests, scanning for his quarry. "I'll meet you there."

A few minutes later, he makes a mental note to tell Lincoln his timing today hasn't been so bad after all. Because, miracle of miracles, the bride is standing apart from the lingering group of family, and as much as he hates to ruin her moment of privacy, he isn't going to let this chance slip through his fingers.

"Rebecca?" She turns, and he offers her his hand. "Congratulations to you and Mark," he tells her. "Thanks very much for inviting me." It was her new father-in-law who would have insisted on including a group of his favoured employees on the guest list and they both know it, but the new bride smiles graciously nevertheless.

"Thank _you_ for coming." She blinks then, as if seeing him properly for the first time. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

"It's Michael."

"Michael." Her brow furrows in a frown at odds with her smiling eyes. "You work for Robert, don't you? Mark's father?"

"That's right."

Rebecca looks him up and down, then seems to come to some kind of decision. "You're coming to the reception, aren't you?"

He hesitates, suddenly worried he'd misread his invitation. "Uh, I hope so."

"In that case, a friend of mine asked about you after the service." She gives him a smile that holds more than a hint of mischief. "But don't tell her I told you so."

"Really?" He hopes his casual smile manages to mask the fact that he feels like punching the air with a triumphant fist, but he's not entirely sure. "My lips are sealed, I promise."

She looks pleased, and he feels as though he's just passed some kind of unknown test, then she smiles at someone over his shoulder and he knows his private audience is over. She glances at him apologetically. "I'm sorry, I need to-"

He's amazed she's given him as much time as she has, considering the demands on her attention on this particular day. Perhaps, he thinks as he watches the bride and groom reunite with a lingering kiss, she has a soft spot for her friend, or is simply glowing with the romance of the day. Either way, he's pretty sure she wouldn't have said anything if her friend was the Governor's date, and his heart does an odd little jig at the thought.

"Oh, and Michael?" It's Rebecca again, sailing regally past, her hand entwined with Mark's as they make their way to the wedding cars waiting in the driveway. "Her name's Sara."

This time, he doesn't bother trying to hide his grin. "Thank you."

As the newlyweds pass him by, he hears the rest of their murmured conversation, and his grin widens. "She's going to kill you," Mark says teasingly, only to be refuted firmly by his new wife.

"She won't, trust me."

He watches the bridal party laughingly find their places in the right cars, then takes a deep breath, trying out the newly learned name in his head. _Sara._ Sara, who had been with Governor Tancredi.

He stares at the line of cream-colored limousines as they slowly move out of the driveway, one by one merging into the late afternoon traffic, but he barely sees them. Instead, he's thinking of a tumble of auburn hair and a wide, breathtakingly beautiful smile that he'd last seen on a newspaper clipping that had been sent to him via email by a long ago mailing list.

Holy shit.

Sara _Tancredi_.

If there had been a chair handy, he would have dropped into it. He's been involved with the shelter long enough to know something about the charity community in Chicago, and he wonders now how on earth he'd missed the connection. Sara Tancredi, daughter of the Governor of Illinois and recipient of the Howard R Swearer Student Humanitarian for her work in the orphanages of Kolkata. Perhaps that's why he'd felt so drawn to her. Maybe his subconscious had recognised her, plucking her face from his memory with an ease that had escaped _him_. Then again, he thinks as he remembers those endless legs and the way he'd sat inside a place of worship trying not to think of how his hands had itched to mould themselves to the shape of her delicately bare shoulder blades, maybe it was something a lot more primordial.

Either way, he has at least five hours to find out if he imagined the way she'd blushed when he'd smiled at her.

Pulling his car keys from his pocket, he takes a final look at the church behind him, letting his eyes linger on its breathtakingly simple lines and hollows, and knows he's made more than one unexpected discovery today.

* * *

Thanks to several urgent messages on her father's cell phone and a subsequent 'quick' visit to his office, they barely arrive at the Ritz-Carlton before the bridal party are due to make their entrance into the ballroom. "Sorry, sweetheart, but you know I just can't ignore these things."

"It's fine, Dad." She does her best to sound unconcerned, but God, how she hates this. She's thirty years old, and they're still locked in the same damned emotional tussle that almost consumed her when she was a child. "I'm sure everything was urgent," she says, glancing at him as the Ritz Carlton doorman performs his duties with a flourish. "I'm used to chatting with Bruce while you're working," she adds mildly, unable to resist the temptation to put a small sting into the conversation.

Her father has the good grace to look faintly discomforted, perhaps thinking of all the times his daughter has been forced to rely on the company of his right-hand man over the years. "Well, I got you here before the bride and groom arrived, though, right?"

_As though she was a parcel to be delivered,_ she thinks darkly, then snaps a mental hand down on the thought. Every single NA sponsor she's ever had has told her that her unresolved anger towards her father can only shoulder some of the blame for her addiction. There were times when she didn't believe them, but she learned long ago that the only way forward was to keep putting one foot steadily in front of the other. She takes a deep breath, then smiles at him. "You did."

The other guests have already been seated by the time they reach the ballroom, and they're quickly shown to their table by an extremely polite waiter. She can feel several dozen pairs of eyes watching them as they make their way to their table, the usual side effect of attending a social gathering with her father, and she keeps her gaze trained carefully on the back of the waiter's head.

It's a relief to sit down and gratefully accept the offer of chilled water from the waiter, telling herself it's simply embarrassment and the lingering afternoon heat that's warming her face, rather than the thought of perhaps being observed by the same man who'd made her blush like a schoolgirl earlier that afternoon. Looking down at her lap, she realises she's clutching her small purse so tightly her fingernails are digging into the fabric. Giving herself a mental shake, she places it on the table beside her beautifully inscribed nameplate, and tells herself to relax.

Her father appears to know the other guests sharing their table, and he introduces her with his usual aplomb, easing her into the circle of conversation in a way she knows she'll never learn to duplicate. Thankfully, the arrival of the bride and groom excuse her from having to make any kind of small talk beyond the _pleased to meet you_ variety. Smiling, Sara watches as her friend sweeps into the ballroom, her hand entwined with that of her new husband, looking for all the world as though she's simply strolling through the mall.

The MC takes the microphone and begins to speak, and Sara plasters an attentive smile on her face. She hasn't been in Rebecca's social circle for several years, and she's quite sure most of the private jokes and asides today are going to go right over her head. It would be nice, she thinks, to attend the wedding of someone close, to already know every private joke by heart.

Like Frank Tancredi, Rebecca had always been comfortable in any situation, able to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right time, every time. _Maybe_, Sara muses as she watches Mark make a show of pulling out his new wife's chair for her at the bridal table, _that's why they'd been firm friends all through high school._ Even when things at home were beyond bad, Sara never once felt as though she had to tip toe around them whenever she spent time with Rebecca.

Sitting back in her chair, Sara eyes the tray of sparkling champagne flutes being borne aloft by a passing waiter, and sighs. Sometimes she doesn't think she'll ever get used to having to deal with these bouts of introspection completely sober. These days she prefers listening to other people's problems; they always seem much easier to contemplate than her own.

As the MC talks on and on, Sara finally lets herself do what she's been itching to do ever since she'd sat down. Taking a casual sip from her water glass, she casts an even more casual glance around the ballroom, looking for that unmistakable profile. There seems to be literally hundreds of young men wearing dark suits in attendance at this wedding, though, and she is suddenly afraid she resembles a meerkat (albeit one wearing evening dress) desperately trying to spot its target across the Kalahari. Shaking her head, she reaches for her water glass once again. _When you're having such thoughts while you're sober_, she thinks wryly, _maybe it's time to pay attention to the reason you're actually here?_

She does her best to focus on the proceedings, but she finds it impossible to resist the urge to continue her discreet search. Finally, her patience is rewarded. Halfway through the father of the bride's speech, she finds the man whose face and smile seem to have taken up permanent residence in her thoughts over the last few hours. He's sitting at a table to her left, towards the middle of the ballroom, his hands resting on the table in front of him, his gaze angled downward as though he's listening intently.

Her mouth runs dry, her stomach seeming to take a swift dive straight down to her toes, as though she's strapped into a rollercoaster that's plummeted down a dramatic dip. Her face feels hot again, but this time she knows it's not caused by embarrassment or the heat of the day outside this air-conditioned ballroom.

_Damn it._

She takes yet another sip of water, allowing herself the luxury of studying him while his gaze is averted. It takes her a moment to realise he's actually paying even less attention to the father of the bride's speech than she is, if that's possible. She watches, fascinated, as he fidgets with his heavily starched white napkin, his hands twisting and patting, his long fingers tucking and folding. She has no idea what he's doing, if indeed he's doing anything more than toying with a napkin, but she can't bring herself to look away.

A moment later, he sits back in his chair, revealing a small structure sitting on the table in front of him, something that looks like an origami pine tree, listing badly to one side. As she watches, he puts his chin in his hand, his elbow resting on the table. He studies the lopsided tree for a moment, frowning as he appears to consider it from every angle. Then he narrows his gaze, lifts his other hand and flicks the soft sculpture over with a disdainful snap of his fingers.

The laughter bubbles up in her throat before she can stop it. To her horror, her timing couldn't have been worse. The father of the bride has chosen this exact moment to finally wrap up his speech, and Sara's soft laughter spills into the quiet, turning heads and earning her a disapproving glance from her father.

A wave of polite applause for the bride's father speech drifts through the room as the dark-haired man lifts his head, his gaze quickly finding Sara amidst the crowd with a heart-stopping accuracy. It seems she wasn't the only one intent on locating the other in the crush of the ballroom, and the same flush of heat that warmed her face earlier shimmers across her skin. Again, she knows it has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the fact that this man, whoever the hell he is, makes her feel as though the air pressing against her skin is literally crackling with sexual energy, something she hasn't felt in a very long time. He's still watching her intently, and she frantically tries to kick start her reflexes into action. _Do something, you idiot._

Only vaguely aware of the loud buzz of conversation now filling the room, she smiles at him. His face lights up - there's no other way to describe it - then he shoots her a wide grin across the ballroom, and Sara feels her stomach turn a triple somersault before plunging down to her toes. It's been almost a year since she's been on a date, even longer since she's slept with anyone, and she suddenly feels painfully out of practice when it comes to this sort of thing. This guy is beyond gorgeous, and if he turns out to be (a) interested and (b) more than just a pretty face, she's not sure she's going to be able to string together a coherent sentence, let alone an entire conversation.

Feeling her father's hand on her arm, she turns her head, almost grateful for the excuse to break eye contact with the dark-haired man. Unfortunately, it's a feeling that only lasts a few seconds.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" Beneath the polite mask of his words, she hears her father's irritation, the old familiar fear that she's going to embarrass him in front of company. Just like her mother used to embarrass him, she thinks, and she suddenly feels the need to be somewhere else.

"I'm fine." She gives him her brightest smile, ignoring the curious glances of the other guests at their table. "I just need to freshen up," she whispers in reply, using the failsafe excuse guaranteed to give her a free pass as far as her father is concerned. As she expected, he immediately drops the inquisitorial attitude, resting his hand on the back of her chair.

"Uh, of course. Sure."

Scooping up her purse from the table, she lets her father pull back her chair then rises to her feet, smiling in the vague direction of the other inhabitants of their table. "Excuse me, won't you?" She's sure she won't miss anything earth-shattering conversation while she's gone. The other four couples are all in the 'old friends of the bride's family' category, and no doubt are already comparing the achievements of their respective offspring. She has confidence her father will have no trouble feigning enthusiasm while discussing her current career choice. God know, he's had enough practice. Too bad he never bothers to feign enthusiasm when he's talking to her about it.

She makes her way out of the ballroom, and maybe it's just wishful thinking, but there's an itch dancing across her bare shoulders and up the back of her neck, and she suspects she's being watched. Of course, it could be any number of people curious as to where the Governor's daughter might be going, but she doesn't think so. She takes a deep breath and quickens her step, because right now she needs a moment to knock some sense into herself and she needs to find a quiet place in which to do it.

* * *

His brother has told him, on more than one occasion, that he is a 'really freaking weird combination of _genius_ and _clueless_'. Michael always bristles at the teasing accusation but as he checks his watch for the tenth time, he suspects Lincoln might just have a point. Sara Tancredi and her father have yet to appear in the Ritz Carlton ballroom, and if the frantic preparations of the wait staff at the bridal table are any indication, the wedding party is due any moment. He can't imagine that a social stalwart like Frank Tancredi would make such a basic faux pas in etiquette by arriving after the bride and groom, and that means anyone who passed up the chance to talk to the Governor's daughter at the church is a complete and utter idiot.

"Hey, did you hear about Richard's latest coup?" John's voice drags him back to the mundane reality of small talk. "He landed the Brosnan tender on Friday."

"I heard," Michael says with a distracted smile, his gaze still pinned to the entrance of the ballroom. "It'll be a huge job if he pulls it off."

"He'll do it," John shoots back, not without a touch of bitterness. "Everything that bastard touches turns to gold."

Michael makes a vague sound of agreement, no longer caring about Richard the bastard and his enviable overloaded client base because the Governor and his daughter are now being ushered towards their table by one of the waiters. Sitting up a little straighter in his seat, Michael watches Sara Tancredi walk across the ballroom to one of the tables close to the bridal party. Her body language is outwardly relaxed and graceful, but he sees the stiffness in her spine, the way she looks neither left nor right as she passes the other tables.

_She's embarrassed_, he thinks. Her father, on the other hand, seems all too happy to dole out the occasional smile and nod as he encounters familiar faces, as though unaware they've arrived incredibly late. The contrast between father and daughter is startling, and Michael has to admit it pleases him. He's never been a fan of the Governor's political views or his public persona, and the thought that his daughter might not follow her father's lead in either arena is something of a relief.

He sits back in his chair, his thoughts racing ahead, darting through the rigid timetable that awaits them this evening. His first chance to speak to Sara Tancredi will be between the end of the first round of speeches and the dinner service, and he has no intention of letting the chance slip through his fingers a second time.

A few minutes later, the bridal party arrives to much fanfare, interrupting the pleasant pastime of watching Sara Tancredi smile and make small talk of her own. Shortly after the dreaded sound of a spoon tapping a wine glass pierces the hum of conversation, and Michael readies himself for the first round of speeches. Normally, when trapped in a social situation such as this, he finds it easy to switch off and think of the outside world. Today, however, his thoughts remain firmly within the Ritz Carlton ballroom. More specifically, with the third table on the right, just under ten feet from the center point of the bridal table. Falling into the comforting habit of napkin construction (something else his brother likes to point out as being freaky), his brain takes up a two-sided stance inside his head.

_What if she's already seeing someone?_ If she was, she probably would have brought him as her date to the wedding, rather than her father.

He unfolds the starched napkin just enough to use it as a base, careful not to ruin its crisp edges.

_What if she's a spoiled brat whose only redeeming qualities are those amazing legs and that smile?_ Ah, but she turned her back on her father's money and relied on fundraising for the money to establish an orphanage in India.

His fingers tuck and fold and slide, the familiar movements doing nothing to soothe the bout of nerves jangling in the pit of his belly.

_If she's single and unspoiled and all those things you're hoping she might be, what the hell has someone like you got to offer a woman like that?_ I have no idea. All I need is the chance to find out.

He sits back in his chair. His napkin Christmas tree is finished, but it seems to be feeling the July heat. It's already listing to one side, and it will only be a matter of time before it collapses completely. _Time to call a halt on this project_, he decides. Lifting his hand, he flicks a point halfway up the tree he knows will send it flying onto his plate. The napkin flutters downward just as the father of the bride makes his closing remarks, but before any polite applause can begin, a lilting female laugh curls through the room. It's a sound of surprised appreciation, and suddenly Michael _knows_. He's never even heard her speak, but he knows.

He lifts his head and looks towards Sara Tancredi's table, and his heart does a jerking little dance against his ribs because she is staring straight at him, her laughter still dancing across her face. She looks at him for a moment, her dark eyes suddenly somber, almost wary, then she smiles at him.

_God._ All she's done is smile at him, and he suddenly feels as though he's got pins and needles from his scalp to his toenails and every single place in between. He presses his hands flat against the snowy white table cloth, wondering how the hell he's supposed to come up with an opening line to talk to this woman when her smile alone makes him feel as though he's fourteen years old and doing his best to contain his body's callow reaction to a pretty face.

He grins at her - there's precious little else he can do at this point – and he's amused to see her smile take on a vaguely bashful quality. For a well-heeled Chicago princess with a trust fund, she certainly embarrasses easily, he thinks, then tells himself he's being unfair. As he watches, her father touches her on the arm, drawing her attention away. Her bright head dips as she murmurs something in her father's ear, then she's rising to her feet - God, that dress really is something – and smiling at the other people at her table and turning on her heel and walking away. A momentary panic flashes through him, then he realises she's walking in the direction of the bathrooms.

Michael checks his watch, then eyes the bridal table. The speeches are over for the moment and the bride and groom are circulating, which means he has at least twenty minutes up his sleeve. After neatly refolding his napkin, he pushes back his chair.

_What are you doing?_ a voice in his head that sounds remarkably like his brother's voice demands. _You're not going to hit on her in the bathroom? That's clueless, even for you._

_Of course I'm not going to hit on her in the bathroom_, Michael informs the irritating voice of reason in his head. He gets to his feet, slowly buttoning his suit jacket with fingers that don't seem as deft as they usually are. _I'm going to hit on her at the bar_.

* * *

Unfortunately, the ladies' bathroom isn't the quiet haven she'd been hoping to find. There are three women she doesn't know loitering in front of the mirrors, reapplying their lipstick and checking their hair. They give her a cursory once-over as she walks into the opulent marble room, then go back to discussing the bridesmaids' dresses and just how much the wedding must have cost the bride's parents. A moment later, Sara feels a flicker of anger as she hears them openly debate whether the bride's nose and breasts are natural, then pushes it aside. These women mean nothing to her, and she suspects they wouldn't mean all that much to Rebecca either. When she emerges from the cubicle to wash her hands, they're vanishing through the door, leaving behind a cloud of expensive perfume and a bad taste in Sara's mouth.

Doing her best to dismiss the gossiping guests, she studies her reflection. Her hair has held up pretty well in the heat of the afternoon, and all it needs is a quick smoothing into place. Her face is flushed in a way completely unrelated to the blush she'd so carefully applied in her own bathroom a few hours earlier, her eyes glittering behind the discreet layers of mascara and eyeliner. _So that's what being completely out of my depth looks like_, she thinks wryly as she pats her hands dry. _Interesting._

As she walks back into the ballroom, she passes yet another waiter carrying yet another tray filled with brimming champagne flutes and wine glasses. Her mouth suddenly dry, she takes a quick detour and heads towards the bar area where several guests have already congregated, cradling tumblers of harder stuff than the waiters are circulating. She manages to slip between two suited linebackers - or so it seems by the width of their shoulders - to order a club soda with lime, then waits, tapping her newly manicured fingernails on the top of the polished wooden bar.

Ten seconds later, the voice in her ear makes her jump and gives her goosebumps in the same heartbeat, and she knows without a doubt to whom the voice belongs. "You know what Shakespeare once said about wedding speeches?"

Sara curls her fingers around the drink the bartender has just placed in front of her, hoping it's just her imagination that her hand is trembling. A face like a fallen angel and a voice like molten silk, she thinks. It doesn't seem fair, somehow. "No, but I have the feeling you're going to tell me."

"Brevity is the soul of wit."

_Oh, God. A quirky sense of humour, too. That's just great._ She grips her glass a little harder, then turns around to face him. She falters briefly at the pure physical impact of finally being so close to him, but she can't let such a deliberate misuse of literature pass her by. She lifts her chin, trying to ignore the fact that his gaze instantly drops to her lips. "And all this time I thought that was lifted from a rambling speech about Hamlet's alleged madness."

He grins, his bright eyes - greenish blue and thoroughly disconcerting - crinkling at the corners as he clicks his fingers in a _drats_ gesture. "Damn. I knew I should have gone with the Grisham quote."

"Maybe." Her breathless laugh fights its way to the surface through a suddenly tight throat. Perhaps she should take a sip of her drink, but she finds it impossible to snag her gaze away from his. She can smell his aftershave, something light and spicy, but she doesn't think that's the reason for the lightheaded sensation she's currently experiencing. "But I read his stuff, too."

He holds out his hand. "I'm Michael, by the way."

She hesitates (observing a moment's silence for her vanquished sense of self-preservation, perhaps) then puts her hand in his. His palm fits warmly against hers, his long fingers wrapping around her knuckles, his thumb pressing gently down on her skin. She swallows hard, shakes his hand once quickly, then abruptly tugs her hand from his grasp. He looks mildly taken aback, but how can she possibly explain that she feels as though her whole arm is tingling from that simple contact? "Sara."

"Tancredi, right?"

She blinks. "Yes." The thought he might turn out to be another political enthusiast makes her heart sink. "Tancredi like the Governor."

To her surprise, he waves away the mention of her father with a faintly apologetic hand. "No, it's not that." His smile is a self-conscious one, and she finds herself hastily revising the tag she'd been ready to slap on him. "You were behind the establishment of that orphanage in Kolkata a few years ago."

"That's right." She'd blink a second time, but she's too busy staring at him. "How on earth do you know that?"

He smiles warmly, as if to reassure her that he's not a stalker who's made it his life's work to research her life. "I've done some charity work with the local shelters here in Chicago." He quirks one well-shaped eyebrow, amusement gleaming in his eyes. "It's a small community. Word gets around."

He does charity work, she repeats to herself. Good grief. _Forget losing the battle_, she thinks as her knees decide to indulge in a quick bout of trembling. She's already lost this particular war and they've barely exchanged more than a few sentences. "Is that right?"

They study each other for a long moment, just long enough for her to start feeling awkward, then he motions to the drink in her hand. "I don't want to keep you from your table-" he begins, but she shakes her head.

"I'm in no rush to get back there, believe me," she tells him with a smile, then fights the urge to clap her hand over her mouth. She never discusses her relationship with her father with outsiders, but two minutes of talking to this man seems to have loosened her tongue. If only she could blame the champagne. "Uh, can you forget I said that?"

He grins. "Only if you'll stay and talk some more." He hesitates, and once again she's struck by his self-conscious air. "If that's okay with you, of course."

Tucking her purse under one arm, she cradles her drink in both hands, more to keep said hands occupied than anything else. It's either that or reach out and run them up his arms to explore the lean muscles she suspects are lurking beneath the Armani suit. Maybe she'd be better off tipping the cold liquid over her head, but she stopped making those kinds of scenes four years ago. "How do you know Mark and Rebecca?" she asks, trying to look as though she doesn't already know the answer to the question.

Michael smiles. "I work with Mark's father."

She hates sounding as though she's going through his resume, but she's genuinely curious. "Doing what?"

If he minds her asking, it doesn't show. "I'm a structural engineer."

She takes a sip of her drink, watching him over the edge of her glass. She knows damn well there's nothing more than club soda and lime in it, but she feels as though she's inhaling pure 100% proof spirit. "And what does a structural engineer do?"

His smile widens. "We make sure the buildings our company designs don't fall down."

She chuckles quietly. Definitely a quirky sense of humor. "I'm sure there's a lot more to it than that, but I get the idea."

"What about you?" He slides his hands into the pockets of his trousers, as casually as though he was wearing jeans rather than a tailored suit. "You studied medicine, didn't you?"

Maybe it should feel odd that this man seems to know so much about her, but it doesn't. "That's right. I went to Northwestern."

He does that little eyebrow quirk again, and it's just as charming as it was the first time. "I was at Loyola."

Chicago might be a huge city, but there are many times when it feels like a small country town. "We were practically neighbors for years, then."

Again, there's that smile that makes her stomach curl up around the edges. "Looks like it."

There's another pause, a silence filled with an anticipation that makes her feel oddly restless. "Is there a last name to go with the Michael?" She knows it would be more polite to return the gesture and tell him where _she_ works, but she doesn't want to talk about Fox River. Not yet. For the moment, she just wants to be Sara who studied medicine, rather than the Governor's daughter who works in a prison.

"Scofield."

"Tell me, Mr Scofield," she says in what she hopes is a lightly teasing tone. She feels so out of practice, it's hard to tell. "Do you normally approach strangers at weddings with butchered Shakespearian quotations?"

"Before today?" A slow smile curves his mouth. "Never."

"Ah." Her pulse rate seems to be trying to tell her something. She assumes it's the same message the rest of her body has been desperately broadcasting ever since this man first smiled at her. "Should I take that a compliment?"

His startlingly vivid eyes never leave her face. "Definitely."

She exhales a long breath that seems to hum in her throat. Funny, she hadn't realised she'd been holding it. She feels as though they're the only two people in the room, which is ridiculous, considering the crowd. She also feels as though she wants to sit down with this man and tell him everything about her life and discover every single thing about his, which should be ridiculous as well, seeing as they've known each other for precisely two minutes.

She takes a deep breath, and again his light aftershave teases her nose. She has spent far too many years ignoring her better instincts. Since she's been clean, it's been an uphill battle learning to trust her own judgment again. She has no idea if she believes in fate or even karma anymore, but she knows she didn't want to come to this wedding and now she's very glad she did. She opens her mouth to tell him that she'll be very happy to spend more time talking after the formal dinner service is over, but something completely different comes out. "Would you like to meet my father?"

_Oh, my God._ For the second time in as many minutes, she has the idiotic urge to clap her hand over her mouth. Michael, however, doesn't bat an eyelid.

"Definitely."


	4. Chapter 4

It's one thing to silence the niggling voice of reason in his head, Michael thinks as he approaches the bar, but it's another thing altogether to convince himself he's not about to crash and burn. He watches Sara Tancredi as she elegantly shoulders her way through the crowd, then follows in her wake.

A moment later, he's standing behind her, counting to ten, and taking a deep breath which does absolutely nothing to calm his nerves. Instead, his head fills with the delicate, spicy scent of her perfume and all he wants to do is brush aside the heavy fall of auburn hair and press a kiss to the nape of her neck to see if she tastes as good as she smells.

_God_. If he were alone, he'd smack himself on the back of the head. As it stands, all he can do is rebuke himself sternly. _Stick to the plan_. Another deep breath manages to clear his head and - more importantly - helps him find his voice. "You know what Shakespeare once said about wedding speeches?"

She had been drumming her fingers on the top of the bar, but now her whole body seems to grow still, and in the five seconds it takes her to answer him, he learns a new appreciation for the phrase _nervous anticipation_.

Finally, she picks up the drink she's just been served, her gaze carefully trained on some invisible point ahead of her. "No, but I have the feeling you're going to tell me." Her soft voice is rich with a quiet amusement, and he almost loses his mental footing once more.

"Brevity is the soul of wit."

She turns to look at him, and he almost loses his mental footing once more. Her eyes are hazel; currently sparkling with an unspoken challenge that instantly fills him with the urge to kiss the half-smile from her generous, rose-colored mouth. For hours, if possible. Such an arresting face should make it easier to keep his gaze from dropping to the creamy expanse of skin left bare by the cut of her dress, but it's a close call. "And all this time I thought that was lifted from a rambling speech about Hamlet's alleged madness."

"Damn," he mutters with a click of his fingers that earns him another smile. He can't remember the last time he was pleased to have been bested so quickly, and he does his best to suppress what he suspects would be a painfully goofy grin. "I knew I should have gone with the Grisham quote."

One elegantly shaped eyebrow lifts. "Maybe," she agrees, the single word infused with much more amusement than his lame joke deserves. "But I read his stuff, too."

He sticks out his hand, abruptly filled with the fear that she might simply give him a parting smile before walking away. "I'm Michael, by the way."

Her gaze drops to his proffered hand, then back up to his face, making him add yet another measure of nervous anticipation to his emotional quota for the day. After what feels like an eternity, she takes his hand. Her fingers are soft and slender, her palm fitting snugly against his, and he is filled with the sudden urge to tighten his grip and tug her towards him. As if his thoughts are plastered all over his face, she shakes his hand once, firmly, then slips her hand out of his grasp with a worrying haste. "Sara."

Once again, he's tempted to smack his palm against his forehead. He knows almost nothing about this woman, but he suspects she's not the type to be impressed by caveman tactics. "Tancredi, right?"

She looks mildly surprised, and not in an entirely pleasant fashion. "Yes," she says in a voice that's no longer humming with amusement. "Tancredi like the Governor."

_Ah, so that's how it is._ He quickly waves his hand between them, as though that might clear away her misconception. "No, it's not that." He smiles at her, silently praying what he's about to say isn't going to mark him as a stalker in her eyes. "You were behind the establishment of that orphanage in Kolkata a few years ago."

She stares at him. "That's right. How on earth do you know that?"

"I've done some charity work with the local shelters here in Chicago." Her eyes widen at that, and he can't help smiling at her. "It's a small community. Word gets around."

The impact of her answering smile almost rocks him back on his heels. "Is that right?"

They study each other, a pocket of silent anticipation in the crowded room, then he sees her adjust her grip on the glass in her hand, her body swaying almost indiscernibly as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. _Damn it._ "I don't want to keep you from your table-", he says apologetically, but she waves his apology away.

"I'm in no rush to get back there, believe me," she says, a wry smile touching her lips, then she looks at him with widened eyes. "Uh, can you forget I said that?"

This time, he doesn't bother reining in his delighted grin. "Only if you'll stay and talk some more." He pauses, wondering if there's anyway he could sound more clueless. "If that's okay with you, of course."

In answer, she tucks her small purse under one arm, then wraps both hands around her drink. "How do you know Mark and Rebecca?"

It's been several months since he'd been inspired to flirt with anyone, and he's vaguely relieved to be on a more familiar footing. "I work with Mark's father."

"Doing what?"

Even if she's just making conversation, she sounds as though she actually wants to know, and the thought gives him an odd little glow. "I'm a structural engineer."

She lifts her glass to her lips, and he wonders what she's drinking. Vodka? Gin? If he kissed her now, he's have his answer in a heartbeat.

"And what does a structural engineer do?"

Her next question brings him back to reality with a jerk. Fumbling to get his thoughts back on track, he finds himself giving her the standard answer. "We make sure the buildings our company designs don't fall down."

She chuckles under her breath, as though amused by his obvious attempt to 'dumb it down' for her. "I'm sure there's a lot more to it than that, but I get the idea."

"What about you?" He watches a thick strand of dark auburn hair slide over the curve of her bare shoulder, then shoves his hands into his pockets before he can do something idiotic like reach out and catch it between his fingers. "You studied medicine, didn't you?"

She's still not giving him the 'potential stalker' glare, and that can only be a good thing. "That's right. I went to Northwestern."

Why on earth did he ever dismiss Lincoln's suggestion of Northwestern when he was filling out his college applications? "I was at Loyola."

She flashes him what can only be called a teasing smile, and again he feels as though an invisible hand has rocked him backwards. "We were practically neighbors for years, then."

"Looks like it." He studies her, trying to decide if now is the right moment to ask where _she_ works, but she beats him to the conversation punch.

"Is there a last name to go with the Michael?"

"Scofield."

"Tell me, Mr Scofield." She gives him another playful smile, and his carefully knotted tie suddenly feels far too tight. "Do you normally approach strangers at weddings with butchered Shakespearian quotations?"

"Before today? Never." His honest answer sounds more like a pickup line than his opening salvo, but she doesn't seem to mind.

"Ah." Twin spots of blushing colour stain her high cheekbones. "Should I take that a compliment?"

Another case where the truth sounds like a come-on, but he decides he doesn't care. "Definitely."

She gives him a long look of consideration, the blush lingering on her pale skin, and he does his best not to look as though he's staring at her. He _is_ staring at her, of course, and knows he could happily do so for the next several hours. "Would you like to meet my father?"

A touch of sleet slides through his blood at the unexpected request, and he can't help wondering if this is some kind of test he's supposed to pass. Letting his gaze lock with hers, he sees the flicker of apprehension in her eyes, but no clue as to which way she'd like him to jump. Does he want to be introduced to Frontier Justice Frank Tancredi while he's thinking impure thoughts about the man's daughter? _No_. Will he agree to be introduced anyway? _Yes._

He smiles at her, hoping he's about to give her the right answer. "Definitely."

She blinks. "You do?"

"Sure." He leans towards her, and the scent of her perfume teasing his nose once again. "Just as long as we don't get onto the subject of whether or not I voted for him."

The small frown between her eyebrows vanishes, and he suspects he's passed her test. "If it makes you feel any better," she confides in a mock whisper, "I didn't vote for him either."

He laughs, suddenly feeling more light-hearted than he has in weeks. _Hell_, he thinks, _make that months._ "Your secret is safe with me."

Flashing him a grateful smile, she reaches out one hand and lightly taps him on the forearm, her fingertips sliding over the smooth fabric of his suit. "Bless you."

He knows it's impossible for such a tiny, fleeting touch to alter his pulse rate and body temperature, but he suddenly feels as though he's just torn around the block with Lincoln on his heels. Swallowing hard, he turns his head and nods in the general direction of the bridal table. "The bride looks beautiful, doesn't she?"

She nods, a vaguely wistful smile curving her mouth. "She does." She looks down at her glass, then up at him, her expression suddenly sheepish. "I actually cried in the church during the service."

The words _I know you did_ are literally on the tip of his tongue, but he chokes them back. _You're trying not to come across as a stalker, remember?_ He grins at her, wishing he'd thought to grab himself a drink, if only to give himself something to do with his hands. "Just between you and me, I was kind of misty myself for a moment."

She chuckles, then darts a quick glance over his shoulder, a flicker of dismay dancing across her face. "I think everyone's heading back to their tables for the first course."

Turning, he follows the line of her gaze. She's right. They're no longer standing in a sea of guests at the bar – when did that happen? – and several uniformed wait staff are weaving their way through the ballroom. "Ah, okay." He turns back to her in time to see the indecision in her eyes. "You can introduce me to your father later if you like," he says lightly, thinking wryly of his previous plans to ditch the reception as soon as possible. "I'm not going anywhere."

She gives him a smile that makes him feel as though he's just downed a glass of champagne, the warmth in her eyes setting a glow humming beneath his skin. "I'll see you after the grilled scallops, then?"

"Works for me." He grins, trying to look as though he has these kinds of conversations on a regular basis, then waves his hand towards the ballroom behind them. "Shall I drop you off at your table?"

She hesitates, but only for a few seconds. With a subtle flip of her hair, something that does very interesting things to the graceful arch of her neck, she nods. "Sure."

His hands resolutely jammed in his pockets, he lets her set the pace as they walk back towards the guests' tables. She has a long stride - unsurprisingly considering those coltish legs of hers, he thinks - but she walks slowly beside him, her drink still mostly untouched in her hand. "Tell me, Mr Scofield -"

"Michael," he interjects smoothly, and she smiles.

"Tell me, Michael." They come to a halt a few feet away from her table, his back towards Sara's table. If he were a paranoid man, he might suspect he is currently being scrutinised very carefully by the Governor of Illinois. "Do you usually dance at weddings?"

"I haven't been to enough weddings to determine an average, to be honest." He grins at her, suddenly gripped by the urge to see that flush of colour darken her pale skin once more. "I suspect the answer all depends on the company, though."

Their eyes meet and hold for a long moment, and his whole body fill with the almost overwhelming need to sway towards hers. Finally, she ducks her head, but not before he sees the telltale blush colour her cheeks. "Well, I guess we'll find out, won't we?" she murmurs, turning on her heel and walking gracefully to her table without waiting for his reply.

Michael allows himself the luxury of watching her for a few seconds – that dress really is a breathtaking feat of engineering – then smiles to himself as he heads towards his table. He knows she can't hear him, but he answers her question anyway. "I guess we will," he murmurs, fighting the impulse to look over his shoulder as he walks away. He usually makes a point of not dancing anywhere outside his own apartment, but he has the feeling he might make an exception to that rule tonight.

* * *

When she returns to her table, her father gives her a searching look. "Thought we'd lost you."

"Sorry," she tells him cheerfully, amazed she can sound so blasé when her heart feels as though it's trying to leap out of her ribcage. "I was catching up with a friend."

Her father offers a practiced smile to an unseen guest over her shoulder, then looks at her. "Anyone I know?"

To anyone who didn't know Frank Tancredi well, the question might sound casual. Sara, however, knows her father _very_ well. "I don't think so," she says carefully. "Michael Scofield? Works with Mark's father?"

Her father frowns, and she knows he's wracking his memory, trying to come up with a match. "Can't say I do."

"He's one of their structural engineers," she adds lightly before reaching for her lime and soda and downing half the glass in what feels like one big gulp. She'd complain about the air-conditioning, but she suspects none of the other guests are feeling as though they're about to blush themselves to death.

"You'll have to introduce me later," her father murmurs in the same offhand tone, and Sara's stomach twinges with a mild dread. She'd realised after the fact that she'd blurted out that invitation to see if the gleam of political zeal would shine in Michael's eyes at the thought of meeting 'Frontier Justice' Frank Tancredi. To her relief, he had been more interested in talked to _her_ than her father, and the thought of subjecting him to an interrogation that only an overprotective father can provide makes her inwardly cringe.

"Uh, sure." Thankfully, a waiter has materialised behind them, expertly balancing several plates, and the conversation turns to the more mundane topic of the appetizer. She takes another gulp of her drink, wishing she could press the cold glass against her too-warm face. She really needs to get out more. Surely it's not normal for a ten minute conversation with a man to mess with her head to this extent?

It takes a disconcerting amount of effort, but she manages to pull her head out of the clouds and make polite chit-chat with her father and the other guests as they work their way through the delicately spiced Thai soup. The church ceremony itself always makes easy conversational fodder at weddings, and it's almost twenty minutes before she succumbs to the temptation to glance across the ballroom in the direction of Michael Scofield's table.

As if he'd been waiting for her to do just that, he smiles at her through the sea of chattering wedding guests, raising his glass in a toast. Even at this distance, she can see the gleam in his bright eyes, and a tiny thrill of anticipation dances through her. Her first instinct is to look away - she can't deny she's out of her comfort zone here - but she gives herself a little mental shake. A good-looking man has made it quite clear he'd like to spend the next few hours in her company; is she _that_ out of practice that she'd choose heading home early to watch reruns or do her laundry over indulging in a bout of flirtation?

_No_, she thinks determinedly. _She's not._

Maybe she should try to play it cool, but she's never been the cool girl, and if there's one thing she's learned from her group meetings, it's that she doesn't like playing games. Hoping she doesn't have a piece of cilantro wedged between her teeth, she grins back at him, earning herself a debonair arch of one well-shaped eyebrow.

"Ma'am? May I take your plate?"

Shaking away the pleasant fog that seems to have enveloped her thoughts, she tears her gaze away from Michael Scofield and turns her head to see a waitress hovering behind her, smiling politely. Hastily leaning back in her seat, Sara gives the other women a quick smile. "Thank you, yes."

The next hour passes in a blur of more conversation, more food, and more doing her best not to stare in Michael Scofield's direction. Her father spends dinner nimbly fielding questions about Caroline Reynolds' spectacular fall from grace the year before. Despite it being relatively old news, the other guests seem enthralled by the story of the former Vice President's impeachment and her brother's indictment for fraud. Sara might have been interested too, if she hadn't already heard this story several dozen times over the last year.

The silver-haired man to her father's right, another old family friend from the neighbourhood, looks particularly agog. "Her brother committed suicide in jail after Reynolds was incarcerated, didn't he?"

The sound of a silver spoon (_literally, in this case,_ she thinks wryly) tapping against glass floats through the ballroom, saving her father the trouble of satisfying the other man's hunger for gossip. Sara turns to face the bridal table, doing her best to look enthralled at the prospect of more speeches. Glancing sideways at her father, she has to hide a smile at the sight of him surreptitiously pulling his reading lasses out of his pocket. Obviously, there are no eligible females at this table, otherwise the glasses would have stayed hidden, no matter how often she has told him how distinguished he looks when he wears them.

Mark's brother is the best man, and his speech is filled with childhood anecdotes and the story of the first time Mark had brought Rebecca home to meet their parents. It's all very pleasant, homespun stuff, so she's startled when she glances at Michael Scofield and sees his face drawn with an expression that can only be described as melancholy. She glances away quickly - there's not playing games, and there's being overly obvious – but the look on his face stays with her, and again she wonders just what it is about this man that has aroused her interest so completely.

A moment later, they're raising their glasses in a toast (thanks to their helpful waitress, hers is now filled with a fruit punch that manages to look almost like pink champagne) to the bride and groom. With an undeniable pang of envy, Sara watches as her friend kisses her new husband soundly before lifting her glass of champagne to her new brother-in-law. Looking pleased but embarrassed, Mark gets to his feet, embraces his brother in that curious way men do, tugging him forward with a handshake before patting him on the back, then picks up the microphone.

Once the speeches are over - for now, at least - she discreetly sweeps her fingers beneath her eyes to make sure her mascara hasn't run. It appears she is susceptible to tears at the reception as well as the church if the bride and groom make particularly heart-tugging speeches in each other's honour. A few moments later, Mark leads his new wife to the dance floor, where they proceed to perform a shamelessly showy waltz to a very familiar song, and a pang of nostalgia tightens Sara's throat.

_Oh, Becca_. She touches her father lightly on the arm, then nods towards the bride. "We saw this movie together when we were seventeen, and afterwards she told me she was going to have this song at her wedding, no matter who she married." She doesn't add that she and Rebecca had both come out of the movie theatre red-eyed and sniffling, albeit for very different reasons. Rebecca had wanted an Empire State Building moment to call her very own, while Sara had spent the whole movie consumed by the memory of watching her own father grieve for her lost mother. She immediately pushes the thought away, because this is a happy day, and watches as her father smiles at the dancing couple.

"She always did know her own mind, that girl."

The rest of the bridal party has moved on the dance floor now, the bridesmaids floating in a sea of periwinkle blue against the black suits of the groomsmen. Sara studies them for a moment, then experimentally wriggles her toes in her new shoes. No blisters, no pins and needles – a good sign for someone who might be asked to dance by someone else who isn't sure how often he dances at weddings.

_And again_, she thinks to herself wryly, _I really do need to get out more often._

As the first strains of a Nat King Cole song being to float through the ballroom, her father gives her a faintly wistful smile. "Care to dance, sweetheart?"

Sara smiles back. She can't remember the last time she danced with her father, but she does remember how much her mother loved this song. "I'd love to." As they walk to the dance floor, her gaze slides sideways of its own accord - that's her story, anyway – to Michael Scofield's table. To her disappointment, his seat is empty. The thought occurs to her that he might have asked someone to dance, but surely this is the traditional father/daughter and mother/son dance and -

_Okay, that's enough._ She gives herself a mental shake, then smiles at her father. For so long, there has been a tactic agreement between them, almost a conspiracy of silence, that the subject of Sara's mother was one best left untouched. Tonight, though, she feels strangely emboldened. "Been a while since I heard this one."

Her father's eyes are glittering, but he smiles as he squeezes her hand. "An oldie but a goodie." He expertly twirls her, then draws her back. "Like your old man."

She smiles, pleased that the earlier tension between them seems to have melted away in the reflected warmth of the occasion, and concentrates on not stepping on her father's feet. She knows how to dance - deportment lessons had seen to that - but tonight she feels oddly clumsy, almost as though she's performing for an invisible audience that's watching her every move. As they dance, her father smiles and nods to people he knows over her shoulder. She doesn't mind. Quite frankly, she's happy not to have to make conversation for a few minutes.

As the song finishes, segueing smoothly into another slow number, she hears a decidedly hearty male voice from the edge of the dance floor. "Frank Trancredi, who the hell let you in here?"

Her father looks delighted to see the owner of the voice. "Roger, how the devil are you?" he shoots back, then gives her a mildly apologetic look. "Sweetheart, did you want to keep dancing, or-?

Patting his shoulder, Sara smiles and shakes her head. "I think I might sit the next one out," she murmurs, secretly relieved to leave him to his social networking. "See if I can catch up with the bride."

Her father squeezes her hand again as he walks her to the edge of the dance floor, then she's barely taken two steps before he's greeting the other man in a subtle dance of backslapping and handshaking. Quelling an all-too-familiar feeling of having been set aside - she had said it was okay, after all - she makes her way towards her table, intent on picking up her wrap and purse before going in search of something cold to drink. Expensive wedding reception in a five star hotel this may be, but the oppressive July heat outside seems to be taking its toll on the air-conditioning.

As she reaches her seat, a hand grazes her elbow, and she turns to find Michael Scofield standing behind her, offering her an endearingly awkward smile.

"Hi."

"Hi."

As exchanges go, it's hardly the most earth-shattering, but it still makes her feel as though her stomach has swooped down to visit her toes. She's not sure how, but he seems even more attractive than he did an hour ago. "You didn't mention you could actually dance," he rebukes her teasingly. "I'm not sure I'll be able to meet such high standards."

There's a discernable self-consciousness underlying his light-hearted words, making her swallow her equally teasing retort. "Well, I _am_ wearing new shoes," she tells him instead as she scoops up her wrap and purse from her seat. "If you want to sit this one out, I definitely won't complain."

He blows out an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Phew." He grins as he gestures towards the bar area. "What are you drinking?" His shoulder bumps against hers as they start to walk towards the bar area, and she can't help thinking he's far too graceful in his stride for it to be an accident.

"Uh, the fruit punch?"

"Designated driver?"

She smiles, thinking of her father's usual mode of transportation. "Hardly."

She braces herself for the usual barrage of questions as to why she's not drinking, but to her surprise he simply nods. "And how is it? The punch, I mean." His gaze locks with hers, and she's suddenly scrambling to remember _anything_ she's tasted in the last two hours.

"Not bad, actually."

He turns back to the waiting bartender and asks for two glasses of punch, then flashes her a quick smile. "Sadly, I _am_ the designated driver." His fingers brush against her as he hands her one of the tall glasses, an infinitesimal touch that should like nothing but instead sends a subtle ripple of heat across her skin. She grips her glass tighter, then tilts her head towards the dance floor, where the music has grown noticeably louder. "Getting a little noisy over there - did you want to stay here for a while?"

He grins. "Works for me."

It's been a long time since she hauled herself up onto a bar stool, but she has less than zero interest in alcohol tonight, given the amount of stimulant already tweaking her system. As she smoothes her dress down over her crossed knees, a quick glimpse out of the corner of her eye confirms that his gaze is following the trajectory of her hands.

_Oh, boy_.

She takes a deep breath, puts her purse and wrap on the mahogany bar, then turns to him with a smile. Before she can open her mouth to say a word, he beats her to it.

"So, Doctor Tancredi-"

The title makes her feel as though she's aged ten years in an instant. "Call me Sara, please."

"Sara." He takes a sip of his punch, bright eyes watching her over the rim of his glass. "What do you do when you're not dancing up a storm at weddings?"

The moment of disclosure has arrived sooner than she may have hoped but, to her surprise, she doesn't mind discussing her employer with this man. "Ever heard of Fox River?"

His eyes widen. "_Fox River_ Fox River?"

She chuckles. "The very same."

He's still looking at her as though she has suddenly started spouting Latin verbs. It's a familiar reaction, but strangely enough, she doesn't mind it from him. "You're a doctor at Fox River Penitentiary?"

"Yes."

His mouth forms a silent _wow_ as he contemplates his drink. It's obvious he wants to say a lot more, but he doesn't say a word. After half a minute's silence - which is a long time when you're sitting with a virtual stranger - she gently kicks the toe of her shoe against the leg of his barstool. "What?"

"Oh, nothing." He looks up at her, his eyes gleaming. "I was just wondering how hard it would be to get arrested in this town."

* * *

_He really should stop trying to make her blush_, he thinks, then Sara Tancredi slants him a look from beneath lowered lashes, her pale skin tinged with colour, and he decides he has only just begun. "Is that right?"

"Well, let me put it this way," he shoots back lightly, praying he doesn't sound like the world's worst lounge lizard, "I know now why the local "Scared Straight" program are very careful not to mention the existence of beautiful female prison doctors."

"Um-" Her eyes widen as her gaze catches his, and he suddenly feels as though something is pressing down hard on his chest. Too much, he thinks. Too soon. She's embarrassed, and he's in danger of coming off looking like the resident stalker. "Can you tell me what it's like to work at Fox River, or would that mean you'd have to kill me?"

She laughs softly, the pink in her cheeks fading slightly. "Well, in a lot of ways it's like any other job. There's gossip around the water cooler, we complain about the hours and the pay, and working overtime never seems worth it once the taxman has visited."

It's obviously her standard answer to this particular question, but all it does is leave him wanting to know more. The thought of this woman working amidst the inhabitants of Fox River is both fascinating and - if he's completely honest with himself – more than a little frightening. "And in the other ways?"

She hesitates, but only for a few seconds. "And in other ways, it's the kind of place that makes you realise that life is both cheap _and_ precious." She takes a sip of her drink. "I've seen some terrible things, but I've also seen a lot of good in a lot of people, usually when I least expected it." She sets her glass down on the bar, then gives him a faintly apologetic smile. "Wow, that got real serious real fast, didn't it? Sorry about that."

He waves away her apology. "Don't be sorry. It's fascinating." Leaning his elbows on the top of the bar, he tries not to dwell on what a woman like her would encounter on a daily basis in such an environment. Which is ridiculous, of course, because he barely knows her. It's hardly his place to be concerned about the fact she spends her days behind bars with inmates and armed guards. "Any truth to the rumour that you've got DB Cooper in there?"

She chuckles, and the throaty sound washes over him, a tangible warmth. "Don't tell me you've fallen for that conspiracy theory too?"

"What can I say?" He grins. "I'm a local history buff."

She shifts on the barstool, the skirt of her dress sliding across her pale knees as she uncrosses and recrosses her long legs as if trying to get more comfortable. "I'll tell you one thing. If DB Cooper _is_ in Fox River, he's flying _way_ below the radar."

Feeling the sudden need to pull his shirt collar away from his neck - he's pretty sure that's the most outstanding pair of legs he's seen in quite a while - he reaches for his glass. "How long have you worked there?"

"Coming up on four years now." She lifts her bare shoulders in an elegant shrug, then looks at him with dark, serious eyes. "Most prison doctors don't stay longer than two years in any one place, from what I've heard."

"Not you, though."

She taps one manicured finger against the rim of her glass, a faintly nervous gesture that immediately makes him feel better about the fact that his arms and legs feel ten times too long for his body. "No, not me."

"You must find it rewarding, to stay so long?"

"Maybe." She purses her lips, as if considering the question. "Sometimes I think I'm just waiting for the next right thing to come along, though." She darts a sheepish glance in his direction, and again that hint of colour touches the pale skin of her throat and cheeks. "Can we talk about you now, please?"

He grins. "What would you like to know?"

She looks him up and down slowly, and the urge to loosen his collar increases dramatically. "What do _you_ do? You know, when you're not making sure that those big, fancy buildings don't fall down?"

His grin widens at her wiseass echoing of his earlier words, and it's suddenly easy to lay the cards of his private life on the table for her to see. "I hang out with my brother and his son whenever I can, I lie on my couch and watch TV and eat pizza, and I do some volunteering at one of the youth shelters."

She seems to snap to attention at his last words. "What kind of volunteering?"

He hesitates. He's yet to meet a woman who is interested in his volunteer work, and even though he knows she's genuinely interested, it's hard not to feel as though he's about to undo any good he's done this evening. "Uh, I'm a mentor there."

Judging by her impressed expression, he shouldn't have worried. "That's great," she smiles, her eyes sparking with an enthusiasm that has him smiling in return. "Which shelter?"

"Chicago Youth Outreach." He looks at her. "Do you know it?"

"I do, actually. I've heard they do a lot of good work, but I've never had the chance to see for myself." She blinks, then shakes her head, as if she can't quite believe what she's just said. "Uh, can we forget the part where it sounded as though I was fishing for an invitation?"

"Sure." He smiles at her, because she's even more charming when she's flustered and the DJ has just started to play a slow song, therefore giving him a perfect opening he has no intention of ignoring. "What do you say we dance instead?"


	5. Chapter 5

Just when she thinks she's managed to gracefully move on from the awkwardness of basically inviting herself to tag along on Michael Scofield's next visit to his local youth shelter, he smiles at her in a way that has her realising her usual poise is still very much AWOL. "What do you say we dance instead?"

She smiles back, trying to ignore the ignoble leaping of her pulse. "Funny, I got the impression that you weren't a fan of dancing at weddings."

"Well, there are many different kinds of dancing." He grins as he waves a hand towards the DJ, who has just started planning a slow number. "This I can do without stepping on any toes." Sliding off the bar stool, he holds out his hand to her in a gesture that is unexpected as it is oddly familiar.

"Would those toes be literal or metaphorical?" Her feet hit the carpet at the same time her hand slides into his, but the only thing she feels is the warmth of his palm against hers.

His grin widens as he darts a pointed glance in her father's general direction. "I guess we'll find out."

"Let me just put my purse and wrap on my seat," she says hastily, thinking she'll feel awkward enough without trying to juggle her belongings. To her relief, her father is holding court at another table, having obviously discovered more people he knows, and she is saved another round of explanations.

She had felt Michael's gaze on her back with every step she had taken away from him, and his smile of anticipation as she rejoins him makes her knees feel strangely unsteady. As they step into the throng of dancing guests, she concentrates on keeping her new shoes from sliding on the parquetry floor, then he stops and turns to her with a self-conscious smile that sends a pang of longing skittering through her, and she forgets all about her shoes.

It may have been a while since she'd danced with her father, but it's been even longer since she danced with a date. _Real_ dancing, the kind where hands are clasped and arms slide across backs, the kind where you're close enough to feel the warmth of someone's skin and smell the clean, fresh scent of their aftershave. Sliding her hand up his arm to rest it on his shoulder, she feels his bicep clench beneath her touch, and a flutter of awareness curls low in her belly. _Damn._

"Let me know how those toes hold up, won't you?" He flashes her quick grin, then they start to move. Despite his earlier protestations, he dances quite well, his whole body imbued with a graceful rhythm that no amount of instruction could impart. His thigh brushes against hers with every third step, his lapels of his jacket brushes against her breasts often enough to make her catch her breath each time. As the music floats around them, she lifts her chin, letting her gaze meet his. Thanks to her heels, her mouth is little more than a whisper away from his. All it would take would be the slightest movement and –

"So, Fox River," he says lightly, bringing her back to earth with a dull thump. "If it's not your ideal job, what is?"

Okay. They're going to make small talk while dancing. That's fine. She can do that, no problem.

"I'm not sure." She smiles at the bride's sister over Michael's shoulder, ignoring the comic widening of the other woman's eyes as she registers Sara's dance partner. "Is anyone sure?"

"I know I'm not," he admits, the hand splayed low on her back shifting just enough to make her skin jump with anticipation. "The type of work you did in India, is that something you'd like to explore again?"

"Maybe." She hides a smile, recognising the searching tone in his voice all too well, and wonders how many times he's asked himself the same questions as he sat at his desk in his office in an impressively built skyscraper downtown. Katie likes to tell her that opposites attract, but there's a lot to be said for meeting someone on the same wavelength. "The problem with that kind of work is that while it's incredibly rewarding, it means being away from your family and friends." She thinks of her father meeting her at the airport when she'd arrived home from Kolkata, sweeping her up in a crushing hug even as he was frowning at her choice of footwear and tattered luggage. "It takes the life/work balance issue to a whole new level, so that can be a problem." She smiles at him. "What about you?"

"Well, my brother would tell you I already have that problem." His gaze sweeps unhurriedly over her face, lingering on her mouth. "He thinks I spend too much time stuck behind a desk and not enough in the real world."

Giving into the kind of temptation she's sorely missed in the last few years, she lets the slow smile curve her mouth a little more, and the answering spark of heat in his bright gaze almost has her missing a step. _Careful what you wish for_, she thinks dazedly. "Is he right?"

He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, the movement somehow blending perfectly into the same languid, rolling rhythm of their dancing. "I'm starting to think he might be." He smiles as his gaze snags hers, holding it long enough to make her mouth go dry. "Don't tell him I said that, though."

"Your secret is safe with me." She has time to think that he's talking as though her meeting his brother is a foregone conclusion, then the music slides into a much faster tempo as a new song begins. Couples around them begin to twist and move to the beat, but Michael is looking at her intently, his hand still holding hers, his arm still curled around her waist. He's close enough for her to see that his eyes aren't green _or_ blue but an intriguing blend of both colours; close enough for the heat of his body to imprint lightly on her skin, making her feel restless and impatient for something she can't name.

He takes a deep breath, his gaze still locked with hers. "Listen, Sara-"

"Maybe we should sit this next one out?" The words are out of her mouth almost before she knows it, but the sound of her name on his lips and the way he's looking at her are too much. Too much for the middle of a crowded dance floor, that's for certain.

Whether he's disappointed or relieved, she can't quite tell. Either way, his hand doesn't move from the small of her back.

"Good idea."

She swallows hard. _Perhaps_, she thinks belatedly, _it would have been smarter to go the safety in numbers route_. He lets her lead the way off the dance floor, but she feels the brush of his hand on her back as they move through the dancing guests, and each contact seems to send a tiny current of electricity skittering down her spine. She hasn't had an alcoholic drink or a single gram of an illicit substance for over four years, but she feels as though she's got half a bottle of vodka or a really great hit of hospital grade morphine under her belt.

She's not sure if she should be happy or terrified.

Perhaps she'll settle for a mixture of both.

They end up at his table - half the guests are dancing, the other half apparently outside for a cigarette break - which seems the better choice out of the two tables. As much as they joked earlier about her introducing Michael to her father, she's more than happy to avoid that moment until it's completely unavoidable. _Not the kind of mindset her sponsor would recommend_, she thinks wryly.

She watches as he shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair - _he's got swimmer's shoulders_, a little voice murmurs inside her head – then crosses her legs and tries to look as though she makes conversation with strange men at weddings on a regular basis. "Tell me about your brother," she asks as Michael signals to a passing drinks waiter. "Are you close?" She's not sure why she asks about his brother, but it seems a safe enough topic, the perfect distraction from the butterflies running rampant through her belly.

He liberates another glass of punch for her and a soda for himself, then turns to her with a chuckle. "Mostly." At her raised eyebrow, he leans back in his chair, long fingers toying with the dessert cutlery on the table. "It's a long and complicated and probably very boring story."

She makes a show of checking her watch. "I'd say we've got at least another two hours before the bride and groom make their escape, so honestly, I'm all ears," she tells him, a warm glow heating her face at his answering smile.

"You're a brave woman, Sara Tancredi," he murmurs, then reaches for his glass of soda. "Well, first things first, I guess. Our mom died when I was seven. Lincoln was twelve."

His voice is matter-of-fact, but she hears the loss that echoes beneath the words. She thinks of his bleak expression when the best man had been waxing lyrical about family in his speech earlier that evening, and another flash of recognition clicks into place inside her. Did her own face wear that same sombre expression whenever people around her talked about their mothers? "And how did your dad cope with two young boys?"

His eyes darken, and she instantly knows she's trodden on tender ground. "My father left before I was born."

She can't remember the last time she wished so hard that she could take back her words. "God, I'm sorry, I -"

He reaches across the snowy white linen table, brushing his fingertips gently over the back of her hand. "Please don't apologise." His hand lingers over hers for a few seconds, then falls away. "It was a long time ago. I only mentioned it because it's kind of hard to explain me and Linc without it." He hesitates, then gives her a painfully apologetic smile. "Seriously, you don't want to spend the night of your friend's wedding listening to this."

"Actually, I do." She reaches for her own drink, suddenly feeling as though she's been caught up in some kind of surreal dream. Is she really sitting here, discussing personal emotional history with a man she barely knows? She takes a sip of cold fruit punch, and decides she's had worse dreams than this. "The two of you were so young – what happened?"

She already suspects the answer, and isn't surprised when he makes a quick grimace. "Well, we didn't have any other relatives who could take us in, so we went into the system." His gaze is steady and clear. "We were together at first, so it wasn't too bad, but then Linc started getting into trouble around the neighbourhood."

In that instant, she knows exactly why he works at the youth shelters. "Juvie?"

He nods. "In and out until he turned eighteen." Lifting his head, he looks over her shoulder, and his face instantly changes, openness shifting into a much more guarded expression, his words a playful yet detached drawl. "Hey. Nice moves out there."

She turns to find a couple standing behind her, and recognises them as two of Michael's tablemates. "Oh, I'm sorry, I've taken your seat," she begins immediately, but the male half of the couple waves away her apology.

"It's not a problem," he announces cheerfully. "We're going to hang out at the bar a while, I think." He looks expectantly at Michael, who instantly rises to the occasion, his tone still that oddly detached drawl.

"Sara, this is John and Nicole. John and I are on the same team at work." He puts his hand on the back of Sara's chair, his thumb grazing her bare shoulder blade. It's a faintly possessive gesture that should irritate her. It doesn't. "Guys, this is Sara." He pauses, glances at her quickly, then looks back at his colleagues. "She went to school with the bride."

Smiling at Michael's less-is-more introductions, she wriggles her fingers in a tiny wave. "Nice to meet you."

John grins at her. "You too." He looks at Michael as he slides his hand around his date's waist, then back at Sara. "You're in safe hands there, trust me."

As the other couple make their way to the bar, she glances at Michael in time to see the dark red flush that creeps across his face. "Private joke?"

"Uh, not exactly." He looks discomforted in a way she hasn't yet seen this evening, then offers her a sheepish smile. "In case you hadn't already figured it out, I'm more of a 'stay at home' kind of guy. Hitting on beautiful women at weddings isn't exactly my forte."

She doesn't try to stop the soft laughter that fizzes up from somewhere deep in her chest. "I would never have guessed," she tells him lightly, his seemingly casual 'beautiful woman' comment leaving her own face warm with embarrassment. "For what it's worth, you're doing just fine."

His tanned face is still tinged with colour, but his smile instantly becomes much more confident. "In that case, I think it's your turn to over-share, don't you?"

* * *

"In that case, I think it's your turn to over-share, don't you?" Whatever has taken over his brain and his tongue this evening, he's not completely sure, but he really hopes it sticks around until he can get Sara Tancredi's phone number. His own thought process seemed to take a vacation as soon as he took her in his arms on the dance floor. His whole body is still tingling pleasantly from the memory.

The woman in question hides a smile behind her glass of fruit punch as she takes a sip, but he sees the giveaway tilt of her wide mouth. "I'm a pretty boring person, to be honest."

He studies her for a moment, torn between saying a dozen different things, and in the end decides on the safest answer. "I find that extremely hard to believe."

She places her drink on the table and gazes at it intently, her thumb rubbing the condensation from the outside of the glass. "Well, there's interesting, and then there's the type of over-sharing guaranteed to kill any social conversation stone cold dead."

She says it lightly, without the slightest hint of challenge, but he hears the challenge in her words nevertheless. "Try me." He flashes her what he hopes is his most reassuring smile. "I can listen to engineers and accountants argue for hours at a time. Believe me, I can do conversation killers."

She blows out a soft breath, shakes her head as though she can't believe what she's about to do, then taps one finger on the rim of her glass. "I'm not drinking tonight because I've been in recovery for the last four years."

Michael stares at her. Whatever he was expecting her to say, it definitely hadn't been that. He thinks of her weary smile in response to his designated driver comment, and suddenly a whole new vista opens up before him. He would never have thought that this woman would ever find herself wrestling with addiction, but if life with his brother has taught him anything, it's not to judge a book by its proverbial cover. "In that case," he tells her, meeting her gaze steadily, "I'm very happy that the fruit punch is first rate."

Ducking her head, she chuckles softly as she wraps both hands around her glass. "So much for dramatic impact," she quips.

He gives into the temptation to touch her hand briefly with his, enjoying the silken feel of her skin beneath his even as he wonders if he would be so accepting of such a disclosure if it came from any other woman; Veronica's friend Allison, for instance. "That's a huge deal, Sara. Four years sober is a real achievement, am I right?"

"So my sponsor tells me," she murmurs. She looks more than a little embarrassed, but he can tell - he hopes he can, anyway - that his reaction has pleased her. "Anyway, that's my over-sharing moment," she says, nervous laughter shaking her voice, "and God, I cannot _believe_ I told you."

"How long does it normally take you to tell a date that you're in recovery?" _Crap._ His tongue suddenly feels too big for his mouth, his brain no longer engaged with his words. "Not that this is a date in any way, shape or form, of course," he adds quickly, repressing the childish urge to cross his fingers under the table.

"I don't know." Her gaze locks with his, and he feels the impact of it like a siren's song. "In the last four years, I haven't dated anyone long enough to want to tell them."

The words hang in the air between then as they gaze at each other, the sound of the wedding guests' conversation and music seeming to fade into nothing more than a muted backdrop. He wants to tell himself what he's feeling right now is infatuation based on a very persuasive physical attraction, but he's not sure he can manage that big a lie.

After what feels like an eternity, she purses her lips and exhales a long, soft breath. "Just so we're clear, this kind of thing isn't exactly my area of expertise either," she tells him, her voice tinged with the same quiet sense of disbelief he can feel clawing at his gut.

"You're doing just fine."

She smiles at his use of her earlier words, her dark eyes dancing with a warmth that lights up her whole face, and he presses his hands flat on the table. He wants to kiss her, very much. He wants to feel the soft yield of her lips against his, the sigh of her breath against his tongue as she kisses him back. He thinks of how her body had grazed his on the dance floor, and a slow, thick arousal begins to burn in his blood.

To his eternal disappointment, the unmistakable sound of the MC's voice breaks into the bubble of intimacy surrounding them, calling their attention back to the wedding proceedings. "My dad will be wondering where I am," she says, an odd flatness creeping into her voice. "I should head back to my table, I guess."

"There's still the dessert table to negotiate," he shoots back casually. "Maybe I could meet you there?"

Lifting her head, she gives him a smile that makes him feel as though he's just won a reprieve from a life sentence. "It's a date."

She rises to her feet, and he hastily follows suit, tying to ease her chair out from the table before the gesture becomes pointless. When she turns to him, her lips parted as if to speak, he's standing close enough that her hip brushes against his, and every drop of blood in his body seems to rush straight to his groin. She freezes, one hand fluttering an inch away from his chest, right above his heart, as if she suddenly feels off-balance and needs a ballast. She tilts back her head, her face raising to his as though she's waiting for him to move closer, waiting for -

"God, get a room, Scofield," John quips quietly in his ear with obvious amusement as he and his date file past behind him, and Michael can literally feel his face turn red.

"Sorry," he mutters, not quite meeting Sara's eyes, because he knows she heard John's teasing remark, and because they're standing in the grand ballroom of the Ritz Carlton Hotel and it would actually be incredibly easy for them to take up John's suggestion. His whole body suffuses with heat at the thought, a sensation that dramatically increases when he sees the same realisation dawning in Sara's eyes. "Look, Sara, would you like to grab a cup of coffee with me?"

She takes a half-step backwards, but his body is still humming like a tuning fork that's been bashed against a granite slab. "I'd like that." She darts a quick glance in the direction of her own table, then looks back at him. "When did you have in mind?"

"Now?"

She looks confused, and he can't say he blames her. "Now?"

"Afterwards, I mean." God, he's babbling now, but with good reason. How do you tell someone you've just met that you can't bear to say goodnight to them? "There's an all-night place a few blocks from here."

She gives him a measured look, as though trying to see behind his cheery invitation to some darker motives. He really hopes she doesn't manage to achieve her goal, because given his thoughts right now, she might just slap his face and march off into the crowd, never to be see again. "Right."

_Crash and burn_, he thinks despairingly. "Sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

"Actually, now that you mention it, the coffee at wedding receptions is usually pretty average." She's talking quickly now, her voice almost breathless, but all he cares about is that she's accepting his invitation. "I wouldn't mind a decent cup of coffee to wash down the dessert buffet."

They both know it's highly unlikely the coffee at this venue would be anything less than outstanding, but he's more than happy to go along with her theory. He nods, taking his own half-step backward before he does something foolhardy like telling her she's singlehandedly made this the best wedding he's ever attended. "Better to be safe than sorry," he agrees, and is pleased when she can't quite disguise her eye-roll at his choice of cliché, because he's not interested in someone who laughs mindlessly at his lame jokes. "See you after dessert, then?"

She smoothes her hands down the skirt of her dress, and it takes all his willpower not to follow the movement of her hands as they press the gauzy fabric against the curve of her thighs. She glances upward, her eyes meeting his, a silent question thrumming back and forth between them, a living, corporeal _thing_. "Uh, yes," she finally says, her tone still faintly thready. "Coffee would be great." She glances quickly over her shoulder, then turns back to him, her expression suddenly one of quiet resolve. "While everyone's still all over the place, why don't I introduce you to my dad?"

He follows the line of her gaze to where her father is slowly making his way back to his table, stopping briefly to greet other guests every few steps. His stomach lurches, alerting him to the fact that while he's perfectly happy to joke about meeting Frank Tancredi, he's not entirely comfortable with the reality. It's something Sara obviously wants to get out of the way, and he's happy to follow her lead. "Sure."

She nods, her smile almost shy, the quick reassuring pressure of her hand on his elbow as welcome as it is unexpected. When they reach Frank Trancredi a moment later, he's standing a few feet away from his table, wrapping up a smiling conversation with an elderly female guest. Michael has to admire the other man's sense of timing. Obviously seeing his daughter approaching, he says a few final words to his companion, whose face is wreathed in smiles as she leaves his side.

"Hi sweetheart," he tells his daughter cheerfully, but Michael sees the straitening of his shoulders and back, the way he pulls himself up to his full height as he turns to greet them both properly. "This your old friend?"

Old friend? Michael blinks, then holds out his hand before Sara can answer. "Michael Scofield. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Frank Tancredi." The other man's handshake is, as expected, firm enough to make Michael wince if he hadn't braced himself for it. "Glad to meet you, Michael." He looks sideways at Sara, whose smile suddenly seems strained around the edges. Michael realises he's obviously dealing with an overly protective father here, but he's dealt with far more intimidating people than this man. "I was beginning to think my daughter was determined to keep you as her little secret."

_Then again, maybe not._

"Well, you know weddings, sir," he says politely, understanding now why Sara had been determined to get this conversation over and done with. He can't imagine she enjoys being treated like a recalcitrant teenager. "There are always so many things happening, it's hard to meet everyone."

"True, true." Frank Tancredi studies him for a moment, his pale gaze disconcertingly shrewd, and Michael feels the ridiculous urge to wipe his damp palms on the seat of his trousers. Before he can say anything else, he feels the touch of Sara's hand on his elbow once more.

"Michael and I are going out for coffee after the reception so we can catch up properly," she informs her father with a smile. "I'll be fine making my own way home, I promise."

Michael does his best to hide his admiring smile. It doesn't take a genius to see that this particular father-daughter relationship is a complicated one. Sara's manner towards her father is warm, almost conciliatory, but she clearly isn't asking his permission.

Frank Tancredi's eyes widen slightly, then one corner of his mouth lifts in the beginnings of a wry smile. "You know, sweetheart, when you lay down the law like that, you remind me very much of your mother."

Michael suddenly feels like an eavesdropper, but Sara saves him from further embarrassment by touching his shoulder gently. The fact that her father is standing right there should prevent him from feeling as though the light tough has sent a spark of heat through his thin shirt to his skin, but it doesn't. "See you after the bouquet toss, Mr Scofield."

He grins at her, then nods at her father. "Good to meet you, sir. I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening."

"Likewise." Wearing a practised smile, the older man looks at his daughter, then Michael, then at his daughter again. "You'll have to come over for dinner sometime."

Beside him, Sara makes a choked sound, then she slides her arm through the crook of her father's elbow. "I'm sure Michael would like to get back to his friends now, Dad," she murmurs, looking very much as though she is trying not to dissolve into laughter. Remembering her infectious reaction to his destruction of his napkin origami earlier that evening, he can't deny he's a little disappointed.

He makes his way back to his own table, his right hand still feeling the sting of Frank Tancredi's bruising handshake. As he finds his seat and makes polite small talk with his colleagues and their dates, though, it's the memory of Sara's hand hovering over his heart that lingers.


	6. Chapter 6

Michael makes his way back to his own table, his right hand still feeling the sting of Frank Tancredi's bruising handshake. As he finds his seat and makes polite small talk with his co-workers, though, it's the memory of Sara's hand hovering over his heart that lingers.

"So, that's the Governor's daughter," John grins as the MC directs their attention to a towering wedding cake being brought into the ballroom. "She must take after her mother."

Michael belatedly remembers John's earlier remark - outside the church when they'd first seen the Governor arriving and everything had changed – that Frank Tancredi's wife had died several years ago. Mentally berating himself for not being more aware of Sara's own childhood loss while he was shooting off his mouth, he gives his colleague a non-committal smile. "I guess."

Putting all pretence at being detached aside, he watches Sara as the bride and groom cut their towering wedding cake, studying the graceful lines of her bare shoulders and throat as Mark and Rebecca take it in turns to make a short speech, thanking their families and guests. He still can't believe he had shared so much of himself with someone he'd just met, but it was as though a switch had been flicked on in his head and he couldn't stop the words from coming. More importantly, he can't believe she seemed to want to know more, not because she was interested in his salary or his condo or his car, but because she was interested in _him_.

He frowns, staring unseeingly at the bride and groom messily feeding each other generous slices of wedding cake. When they go for coffee afterwards, he thinks, he has the choice of keeping the conversation bright and breezy, or telling Sara more of the things he never usually mentions outside outside his family. Or he could ask her about her life in India, or tell her a little more about his work at the shelter, or –

Out of nowhere, he hears a small voice - one that sounds very much like his brother's - in the back of his mind. _Stop thinking so much. Just go with the goddamned flow, and whatever you do, don't screw this up._

Easy to say, hard to do, he thinks. He breathes out a long sigh, then eyes John's beer enviously, wishing for a moment he could afford the luxury of a dose of Dutch courage.

The volume and tempo of the music suddenly increases, drawing people onto the dance floor once again. On the other side of the room, Sara seems happy enough talking with people whom he assumes are old school friends. The bride and groom are visiting their guests' tables in between hitting the dance floor themselves, and Michael watches as Sara and the bride laughingly embrace. He thinks of his quick conversation with Rebecca outside the church, and wonders if she will mention it to Sara.

"Here comes Robert," John suddenly mutters, pausing in his telling of a story involving a tone-dear friend who obsessively queues to audition for American Idol every single year. Michael looks up to see Robert Middleton, the groom's father, otherwise known as the senior partner of Middleton, Maxwell & Schaum, making his way towards their table. "Probably wants to see how many business cards we've handed out."

"Gentlemen." Robert Middleton's face is alight with that peculiar glow that Michael has only ever witnessed at weddings, the pleased parental glow that apparently occurs when your child makes a satisfactory match. "How are we tonight?"

Amidst the genial response from the rest of the table, Michael smiles at the man to whom he's spoken only half a dozen times in the last six months. "Congratulations, sir. Today must be a happy day for you."

"That it is." The older man looks at him for a few seconds as though trying to place him, then a smile stretches his thin lips. "Scofield, was that Governor Tancredi I saw you talking with earlier?"

Michael doesn't have to look at John and his other work colleagues to see that they're hanging on every word of this exchange. "It was."

The father of the groom looks decidedly pleased with this answer. "I didn't realise you ran in those circles."

"I don't, actually." Michael hopes his smile looks more natural than it feels, because while he likes this man and admires his work, infiltrating the social network of Chicago's elite was definitely not his goal in speaking to the Governor today. "I know his daughter."

His boss taps his finger to his nose in a gesture that would be much more graceful if he didn't almost miss his target completely, and Michael deducts he's been toasting his son and new daughter-in-law quite enthusiastically throughout the evening. "Every new contact can reap a reward, Scofield, never forget that." He gazes around the table. "Please enjoy yourselves," he says with a broad smile, "but not so much that I have to read about it in the papers on Monday, hey?"

One of the engineers on the other side of the table cracks a joke about media blackouts, to which Robert Middleton adds his own commentary, but Michael is already looking across the ballroom once more. The dessert buffet has been unveiled, and Michael smiles at the sight of several younger guests elbowing each other in their eagerness to inspect a particularly impressive chocolate fountain. His smile widens when he gives into the temptation to look towards Sara's table. Gazing in his direction, she pushes back her chair and gets to her feet. She nods her head towards the dessert buffet, then glances back at him, her lips curved in a subtle smile of invitation that has him on his feet before he can take another breath.

She's joined the pre-teens in inspecting the chocolate fountain by the time he reaches her in the queue, her head tilted to one side. Without looking at him, she gestures towards it. "Does it meet the required safety codes, do you think?"

He grins. "Foundations seem solid enough." She's holding a dessert plate, but it holds nothing more than a bright pink cupcake. "Are you going to brave the crowds and try it?"

She chuckles. "You know, I'd love to, but I have no doubt a large percentage of that chocolate would end up down the front of my dress." She gives him a mischievous smile. "And chocolate stains are so embarrassing at the dry-cleaners when you're an adult." She looks down at her plate, then back up at him, her expression suddenly hesitant. "I'm sorry about my father earlier."

_Ah._ "It's fine."

"He's like that with everyone he meets," she adds quickly. "Believe it or not, he's actually a lot better than he used to be."

"Honestly, it's fine." He smiles at her as he reaches for a plate of his own. "As long as he isn't running an FBI background check on me as we speak, I don't mind."

She grins as one of the waitstaff manning the buffet spoons a small portion of tiramisu onto her plate. "His work is his life, and that's the way he'll always be, but work has had its own pitfalls over the last two years." She glances up at him, and he has the feeling she's choosing her words very carefully. "Caroline Reynolds had been grooming him to be her next running mate."

Michael doesn't discuss politics very often. He's often thought it a wise cliché that politics, along with religion and money, wasn't considered polite dinner conversation. Not to mention that Lincoln found the topic as boring as hell and refused to be drawn into any political conversation. With Sara Tancredi, though, discussing politics feels as natural as though they're simply discussing the current heatwave. "I did hear something along those lines." He can't begin to imagine what it was like in the Tancredi household the week Vice President Reynolds was sentenced to stand trial for the murder of her boss. "That must have been rough."

"It was." She nods. "It was a bad time for him, and I think it made him take stock of a few things, you know?" She bites her lip on the last word, then shakes her head. "God, I'm doing it _again_."

"Doing what?"

"Telling you things I shouldn't," she tells him, her pale cheeks tinged with a rosy hue. "And I can't even blame the champagne."

"You can take a vow of silence over coffee later if you like," he replies softly, his gut clenching even as he says the words. She might have accepted his invitation, but that doesn't automatically mean she's actually going to come.

She smiles, and the knot of tension in the pit of his belly eases. "I'll read the magazines while you talk. You really like brownies, don't you?"

He looks down, belatedly realising he's stacked three - no, it was four - brownies onto his plate. _Smooth. Very smooth._ "Uh, yeah." He puts down the small silver tongs he'd picked up almost without realising it. "It's the chocolate that doesn't stain."

She tilts back her head as she laughs, and again he feels that sudden frisson of energy leap between them, a quiet hum of awareness that makes him want to do all kinds of impetuous things. "I'd better get back and spend some time with Dad before he heads home," she murmurs, then looks up at him. "Are you really going to eat all those brownies?"

He grins. "Probably not."

She chews on her bottom lip, her teeth white and even against her lipstick. "In that case, may I-?"

He offers her his plate, wondering if he's the first man to be painfully aroused by a conversation about brownies. "By all means."

She plucks one from the top of the pile, her manicured fingernails flashing against the dark chocolate. "Thank you."

"My pleasure."

She smiles at him over her shoulder, tendrils of long red hair sliding over the pale skin bared by her strapless dress. "See you soon."

_If I last that long_, he thinks dazedly. "I hope so."

* * *

"I brought you a brownie," she tells her father as she slides back into her seat, and he gives her a playfully disapproving look. Which, if truth be told, looks very much like his genuinely disapproving looks.

"You know I'm not eating dessert at the moment," he mutters, even as he casts a longing glance at her plate.

"I know, and I'm very impressed that you didn't even _look_ at the buffet." Placing it on a clean napkin from the table, she slides the brownie across to him. "The calories don't count if it's a gift." She wonders if the calories count if you shamelessly flirt in order to obtain said dessert, flirt as though someone much more daring than yourself has jumped into your skin and taken over your body.

He smiles. "Having a good time?"

"Yes, actually." She makes a show of picking up her spoon and sampling the tiramisu. "They picked a great venue."

Her father fixes her with a knowing glance that makes her feel as though she's thirteen all over again and trying to sneak out to see a movie she shouldn't be seeing. "Going to join in the brawl for the bouquet?"

Her spoon clinks against her teeth as she inhales sharply. "God, no," she says thickly, reaching for her water glass. "I'm not in the mood to have my hair pulled, thank you very much."

Frank Tancredi chuckles as he smiles at the couple beside him, who have just returned from the buffet table. "I guess I'll sit out the garter toss, then. Wouldn't be right to deprive the younger men of their chance."

His audience laughs appreciatively, and Sara can't help admire the ease with which he switches into PR mode. Shaking her head, she finishes her tiramisu and waves away the offer of coffee from their waiter. She has the feeling that she'll be consuming more than enough caffeine later tonight and _God_, she must be out of her mind, telling a man she hardly knows that she's a recovering addict. Next thing she knows, she'll be rambling on about the reason why she ended up in rehab this time around. Now _that_ would make great coffee conversation.

She runs a careful hand through her hair, fingertips dancing over the clip at her temple to make sure it's still reasonably in place, and wonders what on earth possessed her. It can't be because she's comfortable with him, because every time she comes within ten feet of him she feels as though her whole body is bristling with static electricity. Even now, her skin feels as though it's about to erupt into goosebumps at the memory of being in his arms while they were dancing.

Her father sips his coffee, then gives her a quick glance. "That Scofield seems decent."

"He is," she agrees, realising with a start that she's not just offering her father routine reassurance but actually believes what she's saying.

Frank Tancredi dabs at his mouth with his napkin. "Not your usual type, I have to say."

And just like that, they're back on their old sparring ground. Sara fixes a smile on her lips and meets her father's gaze steadily. "A backhanded compliment," she says in a quiet voice meant for his ears only. "My favourite kind."

Thankfully, the rest of the table is busy watching the single women assemble on the dance floor in preparation for the tossing of the bouquet. "Come on, sweetheart, you know I'm only joking."

"Well, you'll excuse me if I don't laugh," she begins hotly, then catches herself. _This is ridiculous_, she thinks. She's thirty years old and her father is on the brink of reducing her to tears of frustration. She knows he has a point. She knows he's more accustomed to meeting her dates after he's paid off a fine or spoken to a judge he knows or greased some wheels with some smooth-talking, but God damn it, it's been four years and she will not let him take the shine off her feelings for the man she's met tonight. _Whatever the hell they are_, she thinks.

Shrieks of laughter signify a victor in the bouquet toss, and Sara isn't surprised to see it's one of the bridesmaids, Rebecca's younger sister. It's like watching the aftermath of the announcement of the runner-up of the Miss Universe competition, she decides. Lots of frozen smiles and congratulatory hugs, but she has the feeling a few of those women wouldn't hesitate to rip the prize out of the winner's hands.

Her father leans toward her, his expression that of someone watching a wildlife documentary. "Weddings do bring out the most primal of instincts, don't they?"

"Hmmm." She looks across the boardroom to Michael's table. He's listening to one of the guys from his office, his expression intent as he shrugs into his suit jacket. As she watches, he straightens his tie and smooths down his collar. Her mind is suddenly filled with a vivid flash of her own hands reversing the gesture, undoing and rumpling, and she swallows hard. _God._ Where had _that_ come from?

She's not entirely sure she's isn't riding high on a giant wave of infatuation, but she can't deny she's pleased Michael stays in his seat when the groom tosses the bride's garter to the huddle of single men lurking sheepishly on the dancefloor.

After the two winners share a dance (struck with a healthy dose of second-hand embarrassment, Sara makes a mental note to eradicate this particular event from her own wedding should she ever get married) the bride and groom have one last dance, a comic tango that's a far cry from their first sedate dance together as husband and wife. When they finish – with a bow and to raucous applause - the MC calls on the guests to make up an informal guard of honour circling the dance floor so that the newlyweds can say a final goodbye. Sara hastily gathers up her wrap and her purse, exchanging farewell pleasantries with the other guests at her table. She doubts she'll see any of these people again, but weddings are like that. You always feel as though you've bonded together through surviving some kind of ordeal, no matter how pleasant as the occasion may have been.

Thanks to her father's insistence on making lunch dates with two of his associates before they move to the dance floor, he and Sara end up closest to the ornate double doors, which now stand open, waiting for the newlyweds to make their exit. A new song begins, and Sara grins as the upbeat tempo of The Beach Boys washes over the top of their heads. Surf music in Chicago; that was very Rebecca.

The bride and groom make their way down the swaying lines of guests, stopping the longest to say goodbye to their parents and families. When the bride finally reaches the Tancredis, she's teary but very happy. "Thank you so much for being here today!"

"Congratulations!" Sara kisses her friend's cheek, then hastily rubs off the faint smudge of lipstick. "It was a beautiful day."

"I saw you talking to the hottie with the buzz cut," the bride practically shouts in her ear. "Nice work, Tancredi."

Given that she'd told her father Michael was an old friend, Sara is relieved that he's occupied, shaking the groom's hand and saying something about not drinking the water on their impending tropical honeymoon. "Seemed a shame to waste a good hair day," Sara murmurs, her facing growing warm.

"Okay, I'm going to confess something and because it's my wedding day, you are not allowed to be angry," her friend whispers, one arm still draped around Sara's shoulders. "I might have spoken to your man outside the church and given him a heads up that you might not be adverse to his charms." Rebecca's dimples flash as she smiles. "I might have also told him your name."

Sara stares at her, a hollow feeling settling at the bottom of her stomach. Michael had known who she was when they'd first spoken at the bar. He'd probably known she was the Governor's daughter, as well. _So much for the surprised act_, she thinks unhappily. "Why did you tell him my name?"

"Because he was gazing across the churchyard at you like a lovesick sheep." Her new husband is now by her side, and Rebecca instantly tucks her hand through his arm. "Don't worry, I only told him your first name." She beams at the man beside her, then spins around to wave at the assembled guests.

Sara joins the other guests in the final goodbyes and waves as Rebecca and Mark sail through the ballroom doors and into their new life together, but her thoughts are ticking over furiously. _Don't overreact. Just because he knew your first name, it doesn't mean he was playing dumb when you told him you were the Governor's daughter. And even if he was, what does it really matter? This is how people flirt, or have you been out of the game so long you've forgotten how it works?_

"Sweetheart?" Her father touches her arm, almost making her jump. "Are you sure you don't need a ride home?"

She hesitates, feeling as though she is on the brink of some very important decision, which makes no sense at all, because it's just coffee, for God's sake. For the last four years, she has tried very hard to do the next right thing, to learn the difference between being brave and being reckless; to go with her gut instinct, even if it's not the easiest path.

Her gut is telling her to go for coffee.

She smiles at her father. "No, I'm fine. I'll take a cab home from the coffee shop."

He frowns at that. "You've got Campbell's number in your phone, right?"

She does her best not to roll her eyes, because Campbell is the name of one of her father's security detail and she can't imagine Michael Scofield could do anything over coffee that might inspire her to summon a bodyguard. "I'll be fine." She presses a kiss to his cheek before he can argue, then squeezes his arm. "I'd better go find my coffee date." The words manage to send a small thrill dancing through her, despite her earlier misgivings. "Do you want to have lunch next week?"

Obviously mollified by her suggestion of lunch, he smiles, his gaze shifting over her shoulder not two seconds later. "Jack Brosnan!" he greets another guests loudly over her head. "Don't think you're getting out of here without us organising our next golf day!"

Secure in the knowledge that her father won't even notice she's gone, Sara slips away to the bathroom, wanting to quickly check her hair and makeup before offering herself up to the bright lights of the local coffeehouse. Her reflection shows a woman with a flushed face and too-bright eyes, but her mascara is still in place, there's no lipstick on her teeth and her hair isn't poufy in the heat. At almost eleven o'clock at night, she thinks, that's good enough.

Many of the guests have dispersed by the time she returns to the ballroom - her father is still chatting to the man he'd encountered earlier - and it should be easy for her to spot Michael. To her dismay, it proves harder than she expected. She sees some stragglers from his table, picking up their coats and finishing their last drinks, but there is no sign of Michael. Her heart sinks. Either he has come down with a case of cold feet, or she took long enough in the bathroom that he thought the same of her. She pulls her wrap around her shoulders a little more securely, and tries very hard to suppress the disappointment threading itself through her insides like a too-tight ribbon.

"Sara?" When she turns, Michael is walking toward her, relief etched on his face, and it's an effort to walk slowly towards him when she's suddenly filled with the urge to _rush_. So much for cold feet, she thinks. "I thought I'd missed you."

"I went to the bathroom," she says automatically, then winces. "And I see we're still over-sharing."

He grins. "My car is a couple of blocks away. Did you want to wait here while I collect it?"

Somewhat surprised by the fact he hadn't taken advantage of the valet service, she hesitates. She appreciates the gesture he's making, but the downtown streets should still be quite busy, and there's such a thing as being too careful. "I'm happy to walk with you." She flashes him a smile. "I'll be sure to tell my father you offered, though."

He chuckles under his breath as they start to make their way out of the ballroom. "Well, that was totally why I asked, so thank you."

Despite the lateness of the hour, the late June heat hits them as soon as they walk through the hotel's front entrance, and she casts a sympathetic glance at her companion. "You don't have to wear the jacket and tie for my benefit," she tells him, making him smile.

"Air-conditioning is one of the human race's greatest inventions," he says cheerfully as he shrugs out of his jacket for the second time that evening, "but it does make the real world more uncomfortable sometimes."

"Summer formal occasions are much easier for women than they are for men." She twirls the end of her wrap, trying not to notice how perfectly his white business shirt enhances the width of his shoulders. "For guys, it means suiting up from neck to ankle, but for women, it seems the more skin shown, the better."

They're on the pavement now, mingling with late night tourists and other, more local, pedestrians. He'd been walking beside her, a graceful loping stride, his hands tucked loosely into his trouser pockets, but at her last words, he almost seems to trip over his own feet. "Well, as a man, I might be tempted to complain, especially on a day like today, but the silver lining seems reward enough." His gaze rests on her bare shoulders, and the bodice of her dress suddenly feels too tight across her breasts.

"Uh, so you didn't use the valet service?"

He looks faintly embarrassed. "Sometimes it's easier just to grab a free space." Pulling his car keys from one pocket like a magician, he smiles. "Besides, I don't have to wait for my car this way."

"I like valet parking," she tells him, "but only because I hardly ever use it. I like the novelty value." She wonders if he's embarrassed about his car - she's known men who refused to use valet service simply because they were worried their vehicle wouldn't measure up – but then he points his keys at a black Audi parked several feet away. _That ruins that theory_, she muses, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "Nice car."

"It's reliable," he says lightly, and her curiosity increases. She doesn't know many people who would buy an Audi simply because it's a reliable car. As they come to a halt, he darts in front of her to open the front passenger door. He takes a moment to stand back, and she hides another smile when she realises he's checking the state of the interior before granting her admittance. Finally, obviously finding no empty junk food containers or other debris, he straightens and gives her a sheepish smile. "After you."


	7. Chapter 7

"Uh, Scofield, a quick word?"

Intent on finding Sara Tancredi amongst the milling guests now that the bride and groom have departed, Michael nevertheless slows his pace and turns to give his employer a polite smile. "Sure thing."

Robert Middleton's face is flushed, but his speech is as precise as it always is. "I trust you'll be making the most of your connection to our fine Governor?"

Michael sighs inwardly. If he didn't know the ferocity of his CEO's ambition, it might be hard to believe that the man is wasting time on his son's wedding day to prod an employee about networking. "Well, sir, as I said, his daughter is a friend."

His employer looks almost amused by the non-committal reply, but only for a few seconds. "I assume you know the story of how one of our esteemed partners came to handle the Fox River retrofit, Scofield?"

"I do." He can see Governor Tancredi near the main doors that lead from the ballroom, but Sara isn't with him. _Damn it_. "Schappelle and Associates got the contract to retro Fox River in 1999. Four million dollar contract, head partner couldn't crack it, so he subcontracted out to Mark Bristow." His boss seems to approve of his recall, so he continues, because there's no harm in making a good impression, no matter how impatient he is to get away. "Who basically went through the plan, crossed the t's, dotted the i's, grouted the tiles."

"Exactly. Bristow saw an opportunity and he took it, because it's all about getting out there and finding the work instead of waiting for it to come to you." Robert Middleton rocks back on his heels, then claps one hand down hard on Michael's shoulder. "Our firm hasn't scored a government tender in the last twelve months."

"I know that, sir."

"Try to keep that in mind the next time you're talking to the Governor, won't you?"

Michael arranges his mouth into his most accommodating smile, hoping it looks a lot more convincing than it feels. "Of course." To his eternal relief, he sees _Mrs_ Middleton over his boss' shoulder, making her way purposefully in their direction. "I think your wife is looking for you, sir," he tells his boss cheerfully, and the other man sighs theatrically.

"A father's work is never done," he says, and then he's gone, walking towards his wife with outstretched hands and a broad smile. Turning on his heel, Michael makes his way through the guests, snippets of conversation drifting over him - _the cake wasn't as good as the one we had, the bride was beautiful, how much do you think they paid for this_ - as he heads toward the last place he'd seen Frank Tancredi.

To his dismay, the Governor seems to have departed, and his daughter is still nowhere to be seen. _Why the hell didn't he suggest an actual meeting point_, he thinks furiously, _rather than just tossing out a vague 'see you afterwards'?_ He makes his way to the bar area, then checks the main ballroom again, but all he sees are women who aren't Sara and every new face that isn't hers makes his heart sink a little lower.

When he finally sees her a moment later, he feels as though someone has grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, shaken him hard, then dropped him back on unsteady feet. She's looking for him too, her long fingers twisting themselves in the delicate fabric of her wrap, and his whole body seems to go slack with relief. He manages to close the distance between them in a few long strides, and it's an effort to speak her name in a normal voice when he wants to shout it to the rafters. "Sara?" She turns, obviously pleased to see him, and it's suddenly even more of an effort to speak normally. "I thought I'd missed you."

"I went to the bathroom," she says matter-of-factly, then stops, looking charmingly mortified. "And I see we're still over-sharing."

He wants to pull her into his arms and kiss her soundly, but he settles for smiling at her. "My car is a couple of blocks away." He thinks of the dark streets and the unavoidable fact that they've only just met, and he decides to make it easy for her to be cautious. "Did you want to wait here while I collect it?"

She hesitates, but only briefly. "I'm happy to walk with you." Her dark eyes gleam as she gives him an impish smile. "I'll be sure to tell my father you offered, though."

He laughs quietly as he gestures towards the exit, picturing Frank Tancredi grading him on his social etiquette. Of course, it's possible she's not joking. "Well, that was totally why I asked, so thank you."

It's still warm outside, and a quick glimpse upwards tells him why. Thick clouds blanket the sky, hiding the stars and trapping the heat of the day. "You don't have to wear the jacket and tie for my benefit," his companion tells him, and he happily complies.

"Air-conditioning is one of the human race's greatest inventions," he says as he gratefully strips off his jacket and drapes it over his arm, "but it does make the real world more uncomfortable sometimes."

"Summer formal occasions are much easier for women than they are for men." She's still playing with the end of her wrap, the silky fabric sliding over her hands. "For guys, it means suiting up from neck to ankle, but for women, it seems the more skin shown, the better."

He knows it's nothing more than a casual, throwaway comment, but he's not sure how he's meant to have a conversation about bare skin when all he wants to do is find out if _her_ skin feels as soft as it looks. He glances at her; her lips are curved in a smile that makes him think the comment wasn't as quiet as casual as he first thought, and he decides to push back, just a little. "Well, as a man, I might be tempted to complain, especially on a day like today, but the silver lining seems reward enough." He lets his eyes linger on the smooth, pale skin of her shoulders and throat, then lifts his gaze to meet hers.

Her smile falters, her eyes darkening in a way that has his pulse quickening. "Uh," she mutters, her hands fluttering in the air, as if searching for the right thing to say, "So you didn't use the valet service?"

He's pretty sure she doesn't want to hear that not only does he hate not having his car keys in his pocket, but that there are times when he thinks he's only pretending to be a successful guy with an expensive car. "Sometimes it's easier just to grab a free space." He pulls his car keys out of his pocket and dangles them from the end of one finger. "Besides, I don't have to wait for my car this way."

She smiles, her shoulder almost but not quite brushing against his as they walk. "I like valet parking, but only because I hardly ever use it." She shrugs. "I like the novelty value."

It's an interesting remark coming from the Governor's daughter, and it tells him more about her than a five page dossier could have ever done. Smiling to himself, he unlocks his car, which seems to have appeared at the curb out of nowhere, and she raises her eyebrows. "Nice car."

Again, he decides it's not a good time to tell her he bought an Audi because it seemed like the type of car someone with his salary would buy. "It's reliable," he says, then slips in front of her to open the front passenger door for her. As he does, he is suddenly gripped with fear – fear that he has left his dirty running shoes on the back seat or that _her_ seat is piled high with CD cases and empty water bottles. To his relief, it's relatively clean inside and out, thanks to the recent trip to the local carwash. Realising he's probably not giving off the calmest of vibes, he quickly steps back, pulling the door open for her. "After you."

"Thanks." She climbs into the passenger seat as gracefully as he suspected she would, smoothing her skirt down over her knees as soon as she's sitting. He shuts the door carefully, then makes his way around to the driver's side, fighting the urge to pinch himself. If someone had told him a few hours ago that the beautiful woman outside the church would be sitting in his car after the reception, letting him take her out for coffee, he would have asked if the heat had addled their brain.

After tossing his suit jacket onto the back seat, he climbs into the car and pulls the door shut behind him. Beside him, Sara stretches her legs out in front of her, the heels of her shoes rasping against the carpet floor. "Your last passenger must have had very long legs," she murmurs in an aside that sounds a lot like a question. "I usually have to move the seat back when I get in a friend's car."

"My brother," he tells her, relieved that he doesn't have to mention another woman's name. "He's got an inch and a half on me." As he starts the car, he tosses her a quick question of his own, although this one is far less loaded. "Air-conditioning or windows down?"

"Fresh air would be fine." She pats the small clutch purse in her lap. "I've got a comb in my purse."

"That would be a very small comb, I guess?"

She laughs, pulling the seat belt across her and fastening it with a loud _click_. "Are you insulting my purse?"

He grins. "Just amazed that you've managed to fit _anything_ in there."

"Well, if the truth must come out, my usual purse is a huge affair with many secret compartments in which I can lose things."

"I'm glad to hear it."

It's undeniably a warm night, but it's comfortable enough once the car is moving. It's only a short drive from the hotel to the all-night coffee shop he has in mind, and he's glad. He's never had a car accident in his life but, as he tears his attention away from watching Sara Tancredi cross her seemingly endless legs and back to the u-turn he's currently performing, he can't help feeling he's pushing his luck tonight. "You want to text my licence plate number to your dad before we go any further?" He flashes a smile sideways. "I won't mind."

'It's okay." Her tone is deadpan. "I've already slipped the GPS tracker under my seat, so we're all good."

His smile widens as he checks his mirrors, doing his best to concentrate on the traffic around him rather than the scent of her perfume. "How long have you lived away from home?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her settle back in her seat, her hands toying with the purse on her lap. "Longer than you might think, given my family dynamic."

"You're an only child?"

"Yes." She gives him a rueful glance. "Sometimes that's a good thing, and sometimes it's not."

He thinks of all the times he'd furiously wished, before everything had changed, that he didn't have to deal with the dramatics of a brother who seemed determined to screw up every single life around him. "I know what you mean."

She looks at him, obviously curious, but he doesn't elaborate. Despite her earlier assurances, he's still not sure she would want to hear about _his_ family dynamic. "It's this place here on the right, that okay with you?"

She smiles as she peers out the window at the approaching glow of the green and white sign. "Sure." Turning her head to look at him, she wrinkles her nose and adds, "As long as you don't let me buy anything with whipped cream on it."

Here, at least, he's on familiar territory, having had some version of this conversation with almost every adult female he knows. "Is that likely?" He slows the car, then changes into the next lane, smiling to himself as the Audi glides into exactly the position needed to reverse into the last free parking space as far as the eye can see.

"Very," she says in a distracted tone, then adds, "and no wonder you never bother with valet parking."

"What do you mean?" Putting the car into reverse, he twists in his seat, one hand braced against the edge of her chair, the side of his palm brushing against her bare shoulder.

She doesn't move away from the touch of his hand. "That parking space was right under my nose and I missed it completely, but you pounced on it as though you were wearing night vision goggles."

He might not be in the habit of hitting on beautiful women at weddings, but he's pretty sure the topic of his LLI isn't one likely to impress the ladies, to hijack a term his nephew is fond of using. "Practice makes perfect."

"And a perfect reverse park on the first attempt." She smiles at him. "You must have a good eye for distance." She unclips the buckle of her seatbelt as he switches off the ignition. "Maybe it's an engineering thing?"

The compliment shouldn't embarrasses him, but it does. "Maybe."

This time, he doesn't get the chance to open her door for her. By the time he locks the car and joins her on the pavement, she's already scoping out the lay of the land inside the coffee shop. As always, it's crowded with the usual eclectic mix of late-night patrons, but through the window he can see a few spare armchairs, tucked in a back corner.

The air inside the coffee house is artificially cool and scented with coffee, chocolate and cinnamon. There's only one person ahead of them in the queue to order, and he quickly pulls the wallet out of his back pocket as he scans the blackboard above the counter. "What are you having?"

Sara shakes her head, her hand alighting on the back of his wrist as if to push his wallet out of sight. "You drove, so I'm buying."

He wants to argue against such flimsy logic, but her delicate jaw is set in a stubborn cast that completely disarms him. "Okay." He makes a show of putting his wallet away, acutely aware that his wrist seems to be tingling where she touched him. "But the next one's on me."

Having waited patiently for them to finish their negotiations, the girl working behind the counter now smiles. "What can I get you?"

Sara frowns at the menu for a few more seconds, then returns the girl's smile. "I'll have an espresso macchiato."

He purses his lips. "That's a serious coffee."

She looks at him, obviously amused. "Too rich for your blood?"

He knows a challenge when he hears one. "Make that two."

The girl behind the counter gives them another practiced smile. "Name for your order?"

The word is out of his mouth before his brain can register he's not with his brother or his nephew on this particular visit. "Phineas."

Beside him, he hears Sara chuckle, and he knows he's going to have to explain yet another lame aspect of his life. "Phineas?" she murmurs as she pays for their coffee.

"Uh, family joke." He wonders if the tips of his ears are bright red. It certainly feels as though they are. "My nephew likes to make up different names for each visit."

"Sounds like fun." They move away from the counter, and he watches her slender hands as she gathers up sugar packets and stirrers and napkins.

"It can get kind of silly sometimes," he admits, smiling as he thinks of LJ's more ludicrous aliases, "but we've been doing it for so long, it's hard to break the habit." Seeing an ideal pair of empty armchairs in the back corner, he reaches out and brushes her arm with the back of his hand. "Free table at the back." Her skin is warm and smooth against his knuckles, and he wants nothing more than to slide his hand upwards, moulding his palm to the pale curve of her bare shoulder, then across to explore the delicate jut of her collarbone, then the hollow of her throat -

"Want me to wait for the coffee?" If she has any idea of the thoughts running rampant through his head, she's not showing it.

"No, I'll wait." He needs, he decides dazedly, a few minutes of breathing space to cool his thoughts. "Save me a seat, okay?"

Her dark rose lipstick gleams as she smiles, and he knows a few minutes won't be long enough. "Sure."

She's installed herself in the armchair closest to the window when he rejoins her - he's not entirely sure, but he suspects he heard her laugh when the name _Phineas_ was called out – and as good as her word, she's put her wrap and her clutch purse on the armchair beside her. "I had to fight off a few kids with laptops, but it's all yours," she informs him as she scoops up her belongings.

He carefully puts the tray onto the small table in front of her, pleased to see that he managed the journey without spilling half the coffee into the saucers. He's not normally a clumsy person, but tonight his hands and feet almost feel too big for his body. "Espresso shots after dark." He looks at her as he drops into the chair beside her. "This _will_ be interesting."

She picks up a sugar packet, tapping the edge of it with her thumbnail. "What do you have planned for tomorrow?" For a brief moment, he thinks she's literally cutting to the chase and asking him out. Then, much to his disappointment, she adds, "I hope it's something you can do with a caffeine hangover."

_Aha._ He unceremoniously tears open two packets of sugar and tips the contents into his coffee. "I'm spending the afternoon at the outreach shelter." He smiles at her, noting the gleam that comes into her eyes. The impulse to ask her to come with him is on the tip of his tongue, but he manages to bite it back. "A caffeine hangover might help," he quips as he stirs his coffee, and she laughs softly.

"Maybe you should have ordered a double shot?"

He makes a face of mock horror, then grins. "No, thanks. I think I going to have enough trouble sleeping tonight as it is," he tells her, then immediately wishes he'd chosen his words with more care, and Sara's sudden interest in her coffee cup seems to indicate he's not the only one.

"Can I ask you something?" She's still not looking at him, and he knows enough about women to know that's not a good sign.

"Sure."

"Did you already know who I was when you spoke to me at the bar?"

His gut tightens, because he recognises a rhetorical question when he hears one. "Yes." She lifts her gaze to meet his, her expression faintly wary, and he knows this isn't the time for saving face. "The bride caught me staring at you outside the church and was nice enough to tell me your name was Sara." Her whole face softens, and he feels the hard knot in the pit of his stomach begin to dissolve. "Seeing you with your dad, I put two and two together, then I remembered your work in Kolkata." He wants very much to reach across the small distance between them and touch her hand, but he doesn't, because there's something else he needs to tell her. "You want to hear something weird?"

"What?"

He hesitates, knowing that he's running the risk of making himself truly sound like a stalker, but it could be awkward if she finds out later. _If there is a later_, he thinks. "Were you working at Fox River when they did the retrofit?"

A tiny frown puckers the smooth skin between her eyebrows. "Do you mean when they replaced all the old pipes?"

He knows the Fox River retrofit involved a hell of a lot more than replacing old pipes, but he has no intention of boring her to tears if he can help it. "Yeah."

She shakes her head. "Before my time, I'm afraid, but I have heard a few stories about the mess the construction guys left behind from my nurse and the COs." A half smile tugs at her lips, as if she's remembering a particularly amusing anecdote, then she looks at him. "Why do you ask?"

"One of the partners at my firm handled that." He holds his breath, waiting for her to pick up her purse and get to her feet or, at the very least, ask him why he hadn't mentioned this earlier.

To his relief, she does none of these things, offering him a wry smile instead. "Small world."

"Sometimes." He reaches for his coffee cup. "I would have mentioned it earlier but I -" _But what? You were too distracted by her mouth and her voice and her legs and the shadowy cleft between her breasts? Too immersed in the need to make her want to be with you, too focused on sounding and behaving like a nice, normal guy when so often you feel the exact opposite?_ She's watching him, waiting for him to go on, and it's suddenly easy to say the words. "I guess I had other things on my mind."

Her smile changes, becoming something mischievous, something that makes his pulse stutter and begin to race. "So you're the one I can complain to about the infirmary being too small and the air-conditioning ducts never working properly?"

He takes a welcome breath of cool air laced with the subtle scent of her perfume, and returns her smile with one of his own. "I hate to disappoint you, but it was before my time, too."

She settles back in her chair, crossing her long legs in a delicate _swish_ of skin and silky green dress. "How long have you worked there?"

"Almost five years now." He looks at her, wondering if he should tell her there are times when he can't remember what life was like before he became the person everyone seemed to expect him to become. "Sometimes it feels a lot longer."

She gives him a sympathetic smile. "Not your dream job either?"

The last time he had this conversation, it was with his brother. He sincerely hopes this version turns out better than that one did. "I thought it was, back in the day, but now I'm pretty sure it's not."

"What would you like to do?"

"I don't know," he tells her, uncomfortably aware he sounds like a listless high school student talking to the careers counsellor.

"Well, you're still young." She doesn't quite look him up and down, but as far as his libido is concerned, she might as well have. "You've got time to go in a different direction, if that's what you really want."

"That's the thing," he admits reluctantly. "I don't really know what I want. I look at my brother, working out of that rundown old gym downtown, and I know he's never been happier, and I think maybe I should do the same."

She arches one well-shaped eyebrow at him. "You want to work in a gym?"

He laughs at that. "Ah, not quite." Running his finger along the rim of his coffee cup, he tries to picture himself outside the walls of Maxwell, Middleton and Schaum. "I love the science of architecture, if that makes sense, but lately I've been thinking I need more than just making sure our buildings don't fall down."

She smiles, obviously remembering their earlier conversation. "Your brother – sorry, what's his name?"

"Lincoln."

"Lincoln must have really turned his life around. He spent a lot of time in juvie, didn't he?"

Michael hesitates, then decides he might as well get this particular story out of the way. If what he's about to tell her changes the way Sara Tancredi sees him, then it's better he knows now. "Juvie wasn't the end of it, unfortunately. He did some jail time, too." Her gentle expression doesn't change, so he takes a deep breath and keeps going. "He got caught up in a lot of bad stuff when I was in high school. Borrowed some money from the wrong people when I was eighteen, then had trouble keeping a job and couldn't pay it back. Ended up having to work off his debt."

It's the sanitized Reader's Digest version of some of the worst years of his life, but even those vague bullet points make him feel more than a little bleak. As if seeing it in his face, Sara puts down her coffee cup and reaches across to him, her fingertips dancing over the back of his hand where it lays on the armrest of his chair. Her voice is soft, her eyes never leaving his. "I don't want to turn therapist on you" she says quietly, looking at him as though she's trying to fathom a particularly knotty puzzle, "but it sounds as though you feel responsible?"

Michael stares at her, belatedly realising that of course a doctor who has had personal experience with group therapy would be able to see two steps ahead in this particular tale. "For a long time, I thought mom's insurance money had paid my way through college." He takes a deep breath, remembering too many harsh words, so many sneering judgments. "And I never stopped ragging on my brother for how he'd wasted his half on booze and pot and crappy cars that he never got around to fixing up, never once dreaming that there was no insurance money and the only reason I went to college was that my brother borrowed the money from the kind of people who don't take too kindly to missed payments."

She looks pained. "I guess you're not talking about a couple of hundred dollars."

He wonders if she's always been a perceptive person, or if her time spent with the inhabitants of Fox River has given her the gift of cutting straight to the heart of a conversation. "By the time he told me, he still owed ninety thousand, give or take a couple of bucks."

She stares at him, her coffee apparently forgotten. "That's a lot of money to owe a loan shark."

"Exactly." Maybe he should drink some more of his own coffee, but at this moment in time, he might gag on it. "Of course, there's no such thing as a free ride, and he just got in deeper and deeper."

"And you didn't know?"

"No." He looks at her, willing to understand how he could have missed the real reason why his only brother was falling apart. "All I saw was that he didn't care about anyone but himself." She opens her mouth to speak, so he quickly continues, knowing he needs to get this out of his system now so that they can move onto something else. "One night, he found himself in a bad place." _God, if there were awards handed out for understatement, he'd had to build himself a trophy case._ "He turned up on my doorstep in the middle of the night, finally deciding he was ready to tell me the truth."

He thinks of that night, how tempted he'd been to ignore Lincoln's call, how he'd barely been able to understand his brother's desperate words over the phone when he finally answered. He thinks of kissing Veronica chastely on the forehead and putting her in a taxi, knowing he was doing the right thing, no matter how lovely - and lonely - she was. It's not something he likes to remember, let alone discuss, but something of his thoughts must show in his face, because Sara's hand touches his once more. "You don't have to tell me any more if it's bringing back bad memories."

"No, it's okay." He smiles at her, quietly astounded to realise it's the truth. "I want to."


	8. Chapter 8

Other people's laughter and conversation surrounds them, interspersed with the hiss of hot steam from the espresso machine and the sing-song voice of the staff calling out names for orders. Add the usual coffee house soundtrack music being piped from the speakers in the ceiling, and the space around them is a subtle maelstrom of sound.

Sara barely notices.

She sits, her coffee going cold in front of her, as Michael Scofield tells her an almost unbelievable story of brotherly devotion. She knows she's in danger of romanticising his brother's actions, but to be completely honest, she's never regretted being an only child more.

He tells how his brother had turned up on his doorstep, saying that he was in trouble and he needed Michael to know everything because it was the only way to make things right. He tells her of his horror at learning that he'd built the last few years of his life on a lie, that his college education - and his corner office and his car and his goddamned loft - was the reason his brother was indebted to one of the city's nastier street thugs. "What did you do when he told you?"

He gives her a sheepish look. "I punched him."

If she'd been holding her coffee cup, she might have dropped it. "Seriously?"

His tanned face is flushed. "Well, I yelled at him a lot first." He drums his long fingers on the armrest of his chair, and she finds herself watching them, marvelling that that such elegant hands had been used to punch someone in the face. "I tore him a new one about going behind my back and lying to me for so long, and that with my SAT scores I could have gotten a scholarship and why the hell didn't he think about that before he went out and ruined his life." His gaze meets hers for a few seconds, then drops down to the small table between them. "I've had more noble moments in my life, believe me."

She cannot imagine what it would be like to discover someone you loved had made such a sacrifice for you. "I can understand why you felt that way, though."

"I wish I could say my brother was as understanding that night." An almost weary half-smile quirks his lips. "He told me I was behaving like a spoiled, immature brat, and maybe I was just disappointed because knowing the truth meant I couldn't make myself feel better by comparing my life to his anymore."

She can't help wincing. "Ouch."

"Yeah." He looks at her as he reaches for his coffee. "That's when I punched him."

She feels like the worst kind of voyeur, hanging on his every word, but she's fascinated by the layers being peeled back before her eyes. "And?"

"Oh, he punched me back," he says casually, "and it was at that moment I remembered something important that I really should have remembered earlier."

"What was that?"

Michael grins at her. "He's a lot bigger than me."

Laughter fizzes up in her throat, but he doesn't seem to mind. On the contrary, her reaction only makes him smile more. "We spent an hour or two yelling at each other, and I made coffee and we sat down and tried to work out how to fix the mess he was in." As if he's suddenly reminded himself of its existence, he lifts his cup to his lips, then makes a face. "Cold."

She smiles. "So's mine."

"Maybe we should go for something chilled next time," he says, then gives her a pointed look. "I'm buying."

"Sure." She couldn't care less who pays for the next drink. "How did you work it out?"

"I wanted to sell my car, but he wouldn't let me. Said I'd earned it." He frowns, and Sara thinks she may have found the explanation for his less-than-enthusiastic response to her admiration of his Audi. "So I took out a second mortgage and worked a lot of overtime. Lincoln moved in with me, took every job that came his way, and we both spent the next two years living off noodles and cheap beer."

He tells her all this in a matter-of-fact voice, as though this is something people do for their siblings every day. This story of brother devotion, Sara realises, is definitely a two-way street. "And now he's running his own business?"

"Yep." The emotion gleaming in Michael's vivid eyes is easily identifiable as pride. "He worked during the day and studied at night to get his personal trainer certification."

She doesn't know his brother - hell, she hardly knows _him_ - but the thought of someone turning their life around so thoroughly makes her feel a small measure of his obvious pride. Maybe this is how Katie felt, she thinks, the first time Sara had shared the demons of her past. It would certainly explain the tearful hug she'd received that particular day. "Good for him." She reaches for her purse, then remembers she's been forbidden from buying the next round of coffee. "I take it he doesn't live with you anymore?"

He laughs. "No, thank God. He and his girlfriend live near Northwestern, which is close enough to my place to hang out and far enough away to keep everyone happy."

"My old stomping ground," she says with a smile, then she hesitates, battling her rising curiosity. Maybe she's already used up her quota of personal questions, but her current apartment isn't that far from her old campus, and if Michael lives near her old campus- Her curiosity wins. "Where's your place, if you don't mind me asking?"

His smile seems to indicate he doesn't mind her asking in the slightest. "Ogden Avenue."

She stares at him. "Seriously?"

"Yes, why?"

Her father would pitch a fit if he knew she was telling a relative stranger where she lives, but her father isn't here. "I'm on Van Leer Drive."

It's his turn to stare. "You live in my neighbourhood?"

She feels like a tourist who has struck up conversation with a fellow countryman at the top of the Eiffel Tower only to find they live in the same street back home. "It looks that way."

He leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving her face. "How is it possible that I've never met you before today?"

Coming from another man, Sara decides, the question might sound like a practiced pickup line. Coming from Michael Scofield, however, it sounds like he's genuinely annoyed with himself. She smiles at him, praying he can't tell that her pulse seems to have abruptly spiked. "Well, I don't get out much."

He laughs at that, his bright eyes crinkling at the corners. "That makes two of us." He looks as though he wants to say something else, but seems to think better of it. "My turn," he announces as he gets to his feet, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. "What would you like?"

She's had all the double espresso she can handle for one evening, she thinks. "Iced tea would be great."

"Done."

She doesn't fight the urge to watch him as he walks to the counter, nor does she try to stop herself from ticking off several tiny ingrained boxes in her head. It's an eclectic list, one that frequently drives Katie to despair, leading her to tell Sara again and again that she is looking for someone who doesn't exist.

_Nice guy. Tall. Amazing eyes. Smart. Polite. Loves his family. Cares about the underprivileged in their community. Possibly shy. Beautiful smile, good laugh. Possible deep-seated emotional issues due to childhood trauma. Great shoulders._

She watches his mouth move as he chats to the barista, his beautifully shaped hands moving through the air as he speaks, and she suddenly very much wants to know how they would feel - that mouth, those hands - on her skin.

She is, Sara decides, in very big trouble here.

Shamelessly studying him now, she's intrigued by the way the overhead lights make his scalp shine through the buzz cut he's sporting. Catching a glimpse of something oddly familiar, she narrows her gaze, wondering if she's seeing things. No, she's not seeing things. She studies the faint but unmistakable scars she knows were made by a halo brace and, when he turns to grab some napkins, she sees a thin, pale line towards the crown of his head.

_You will not ask_, she tells herself sternly. _Just because you're comfortable discussing medical procedures at the drop of a hat, doesn't mean he would want to talk about it._

One of the staff clears away their used cups and, suddenly feeling the need to occupy her hands, Sara toys with the silver clasp of her purse, clicking it open and shut. It's been a while since she experienced this odd feeling of urgency, the rush to discover everything you possibly can about another person. It had started, she realises now, the moment she'd turned around in the church to find him watching her, and the hunger to discover everything she can about this man has only grown with every moment she spends in his company. She just hopes she's not the only one feeling it.

The cheerfully loud voice of the girl working behind the counter cuts through her reverie. "Lando, your order is ready."

Sara is still laughing when Michael reaches her, an iced tea in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. "Lando?"

He's grinning like an errant schoolboy, although she definitely doesn't remember seeing any boys like him when she was at school. "You like that one?" His grin broadens as he sits down beside her. "I'll have to remember to use it on my brother."

She takes the iced tea from his hand, almost jumping when his fingers slide against hers. "Star Wars fans?"

"Wasn't everyone?" He takes a long sip of his water before leaning back in his chair, one leg casually crossed over the opposite knee. His tie has been loosened, something he must have down while he was at the counter, the top button undone. She remembers her earlier mental slideshow involving her own hands doing just that, and a rush of heat washes over her. "Only the original trilogy, though."

She laughs, amusement mingling with attraction and turning it into something warm and vital, pressing outwards against her skin. "Of course."

He raises his bottle of water to her. "You too?"

He obviously approves, and it's ridiculous, she knows, but she can't resist the urge to impress him a little more. "I had a whole shelf of action figures."

His eyes light up, and she can't help thinking that inside every adult, there's a child waiting to be appeased. "Is that so?" He narrows his gaze, as if suddenly doubting her word. "What was your favourite?"

It's been years since she thought about the toys that had once thrilled her so much, but this is a question she can answer. "Uh, the Millennium Falcon model, I guess."

"Ah, the Holy Grail." He snaps his fingers, shaking his head at her, his teeth white against his tan as he grins. "I don't know if we can be friends anymore."

He's teasing her, and it feels good, but she's suddenly acutely aware that a child who spent so much time in the foster system probably wouldn't have had many toys, let alone the coveted collector's item they're discussing. In an instant, her side of the conversation feels less like flirting and more like boasting. "I think it's still in storage somewhere," she tells him, and his eyes widen.

"Are you kidding me?"

"I'm pretty sure." If it _is_ in storage, it's with her mother's belongings that her father couldn't bear to throw away, and that's not a topic of conversation she wants to broach tonight.

"Well, if you ever wanted to make a few bucks, you'd get a mint for it on eBay."

She chuckles. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Of course," he says, a smirk tugging at his lips, "if you wanted to make it a private sale instead, I'd be more than happy to take it off your hands."

The butterflies in the pit of her stomach, having been lazily somersaulting for the last hour or so, promptly commence an energetic aerobic routine. "I'll keep that in mind, too."

Grinning, he reaches a hand upwards, rubbing his palm over his scalp in a quick, almost nervous gesture, and her gaze is drawn once again to the faded scars beneath the prickle of his dark hair. She hadn't noticed them until he'd stood beneath the gleaming lights at the counter, but now that she knows they're there, they're easy to find. To her consternation, he notices she's looking. Before she can drop her gaze, he taps the scar closest to his temple with one long finger and gives her a quick smile. "If my brother were here, he'd tell you that's where I had the devil horns removed."

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to stare-"

"It's okay, really."

His tone is light, his body language relaxed. Gathering up her courage, she takes the opening he's given her. "Impressive battle scars."

He smiles. "I had a health scare a while back."

She's a doctor, dealing with illness, injury and death on a regular basis. Her blood shouldn't suddenly feel chilled at his words, but it does. "Nothing too serious, I hope?"

"Do you know anything about hypothalamic hamartomas?"

"Not a lot." She tries to remember everything she knows about the tumor he's named. To her dismay, it's not very much. "It's benign, I know that much."

He nods. "Benign, but very invasive and very tricky to remove."

She looks at the perfectly formed, tiny circles imprinted on his scalp, and she wants to trace them with her own fingers. "When were you diagnosed?"

"Just over a year ago."

She looks at him. He's the picture of glowing good health, with perfect teeth, clear eyes, excellent skin tone. The thought that he'd had major neurosurgery only twelve months earlier doesn't seem possible. "When did you have the surgery?"

"A month after I was diagnosed." He meets her gaze steadily. "I wanted to wait, explore a few different avenues, but Lincoln didn't think that was a very good idea." He brushes his fingertips over the scar once more, then darts a quick smile at her. "Three weeks later, I was back at work, no more headaches or nosebleeds or wanting to eat whole pies in a single sitting, so I guess he was right."

She smiles back, not bothering to analyse the relief she feels over the health of a man she's only just met. Analysing means over-thinking, and she's determined not to over-think anything tonight. "Sounds like you were a model patient."

He snorts with amusement, as if there are many stories he could tell her, none of which are flattering. "Well, I don't know about that."

"And you're okay now?"

"Never felt better." He reaches out to pick up his bottle of water, then settles back in his chair. "Tell me more about Fox River?"

Recognising a request for a change of subject when she hears one, she does. She tells him how a casual - or perhaps not that casual, considering Brad Bellick - remark at an AA meeting led to her working at Fox River. She tells him about Katie, how grateful she is to have another woman on the staff, especially one who has become a good friend. She tells him about Henry Pope, the man who gave her a job not as a favour to her father, but because he actually believed she could make a difference. Thinking of his passion for architecture, she tells him about the ornate cornices that line ceilings of the prison's hallways, and the sense of both history and hopelessness that hits her every time she steps through the main gates and sees the words engraved above the archway that implore the inmates to 'make time serve you'.

She swallows the last mouthful of her iced tea, and decides she's had enough of Fox River for one night. "What were you doing with your napkin at the reception?"

He blinks at the sudden change of topic, then smiles at her. "Origami."

"Do you do that often?"

He gives her a look of mock indignation. "You got something against origami?"

"Not at all, it's just-" How can she put this? _It's not something I expected to see a very attractive man doing at a formal dinner?_ Maybe not. "It was unusual, that's all."

He's smiling again, reaching down to pluck one of the napkins from the small coffee table. "We learned how to make a crane in grade school, and when I realised I was really good at it, I kept doing it." As he talks, he's folding the white paper napkin, his fingers flying. "I taught Lincoln how to make them, and it became a family thing." He glances up at her, as if to make sure she's watching his demonstration. "He used to leave one in my room when he'd come home late or leave early in the morning, just so I'd find it when I woke up." He glances up at her again, and in his wistful expression, she sees something of the young boy he'd once been. "Just so I'd know he was looking out for me, no matter what else was going on."

A pang of tenderness tightens her throat. "Some people live a long time without ever knowing that feeling."

"I know." His expression is one of complete absorption, just as it had been when she'd watched him during the wedding reception, and she thinks of what it would be like to have that single-minded focus directed towards her.

Her mouth goes dry at the thought.

"Paper napkins aren't the best material to work with," he murmurs as a perfectly formed white paper crane suddenly appears in his grasp, making a mockery of his words, "but you get the idea." He holds out his hand, the small paper bird dangling from his fingertips, and she instinctively puts out her own hand. He drops the crane gently into her palm, then smiles into her eyes. "That one's on the house."

Several dozen emotions - none of them simple - are clattering around inside her as she carefully tucks the crane into her purse. "Thank you."

It's late, and maybe she should think about finding a taxi, but instead she has a mug of peppermint tea (iced coffee for him this time), Michael cheerfully ignoring her insistence that it was her turn to buy the drinks. The crowd around them ebbs and flows, students with laptops gradually replaced by those seeking one last pit stop before heading home after leaving the various bars and clubs in the area. The faintest trace of stale cigarette smoke and booze is now threaded through the scent of coffee and cinnamon; she remembers those particular scents clinging to her own clothes and skin all too well.

Maybe she should have done so, given how much he's shared with her, but apart from the passing mention of her AA meetings, she doesn't go into any further details about her recovery. To her relief, Michael doesn't ask for any. She's not ashamed of what she's achieved, but she doesn't want to have a discussion about morphine, not tonight.

Michael listens attentively when she talks, asking questions every now and then, questions that feel more like genuine curiosity, rather than an attempt to simply make conversation. Leaving the topic of Fox River behind them, they move onto television, books and movies. To her complete lack of surprise, he likes the same comedies she does, although he displays a disappointingly clichéd attitude towards some of the more female-orientated movies she likes. Still, she thinks as she tries to keep from staring at the tanned hollow of his throat exposed by his unbuttoned shirt collar, nobody's perfect.

As they talk, she can feel her whole body relaxing, pleasantly sinking into the depths of the comfortable coffee house armchair. His voice is rich and melodious, almost soothing, and she enjoys listening to his questions far more than the sound of her own voice. When a yawn threatens to crack her jaw in the middle of a sentence, though, she suddenly realises she might have mistaken relaxation for weariness. She looks at her watch, and literally feels her jaw drop.

"What's up?"

She looks at the man sitting opposite her. "It's almost three o'clock."

He blinks, then looks at his own watch. "Wow." He lifts his head, his gaze meeting hers. "We should go, I guess."

The obvious reluctance in his voice makes it easier to face the inevitable end of this time together. "Probably a good idea." She smiles at him. "You've got to do some mentoring tomorrow, after all."

He hesitates, then gives her a hopeful smile. "Is there any chance I can persuade you to let me drive you home?"

Maybe she should play coy or hard to get or any number of irritating mind games, but her gut instinct tells her that not only will this man deliver her to her door safe and sound, but also that if she refuses, he will wait with her - without complaining - until she has tracked down that elusive creature, the late night taxi. "I can hardly protest that you'd be going out of your way, can I?" she quips as she gathers up her wrap and her purse.

He gets to his feet, his gaze sweeping over her in a way that has her hands fumbling with her belongings. "No, you cannot."

"In that case, that's most kind of you, good sir."

He chuckles at her reply, stepping back to let her negotiate her way past the wooden table and out of the little corner where they've been ensconced for over four hours. "Seems the least I could do, seeing as I forced you to stay out way past your bedtime."

There is no innuendo in his words whatsoever, but she feels the blood rush to her face all the same. When she turns to look at him, he's close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body and smell the spicy tang of his aftershave. His eyes darken as his gaze meets hers, and she abruptly feels as though all the air is being sucked from the room. They're standing in the middle of a brightly lit coffee shop, surrounded by people inhaling brownies and coffee, and all she can think of is how much she wants him to kiss her. "Not to mention making me miss out on a ride home from my dad," she finally says in a voice that sounds as though it's struggling to make itself heard.

She sees his throat work as he swallows, then he nods, his hand grazing her elbow in an all-too-fleeting touch. "That too, of course."

It's something of a relief to step into the fresh air, the heat of the previous day forgotten in the predawn cool. She drapes her wrap around her shoulders, more for something to do with her hands than the cooler temperature. Beside her, Michael is silent, his hands in his pockets as they walk. It's a silence that blossoms between them as they walk toward his car and, as she feared she might as soon as she had some breathing space, she starts thinking too much.

He hasn't asked for her number, but there's no reason she can't ask for his. He hasn't mentioned anything about seeing her again, but he obviously enjoyed being with her this evening. The memory of being in his arms while they were dancing is etched into every inch of her skin, but apart from a few polite brushes of his hand against her arm, he hasn't touched her since they left the dance floor.

He unlocks the car, opens the door for her, then steps back to give her room to get in. It all gives her a feeling of déjà vu, although this time she's no longer worried about running out of things to say to him, but running out of time in which to say them.

He slides into the driver's seat and shuts the door behind him, creating a quiet cocoon around them, then looks at her expectantly. Wishing she was better at this part of the dating game, she swallows hard, suddenly lost for words. "Uh, do you need directions?"

He gives her a smile. "No, I'm good." He starts the ignition, and a moment later they're gliding smoothly through the sparse early morning traffic. "Although you might need to tell me which house is yours once we get onto Van Leer."

She smiles back. "1616, and I'll have you know it's an apartment block, not a house."

Silence settles over them once more, and it's a relief when he reaches out and flicks on the car radio. One of the local stations - the kind that plays what Katie calls 'acid wash rock' - blares into life. As if pre-empting her reaction, Michael offers her a sheepish grin. "I've got some CDs if you'd prefer."

"No, it's fine." She tilts her head to one side as she listens to the song playing, then looks at him. "God, the last time I heard this song was at my prom."

His long fingers are tapping the steering wheel in time with the beat. "Did your dad insist on inspecting your date beforehand?"

She feels a blush creeping up the back of her neck. "Uh, yes."

He laughs quietly under his breath. "I can imagine."

The conversation meanders through several subjects for the next fifteen minutes, discussing their respective CD collections - as she suspected, his is alarmingly eclectic – and the kids he'd be seeing at the shelter that weekend. When the Audi finally turns onto her street, she's assailed by a sudden rush of panic.

_I don't want this to end_.

She directs him to her apartment building, halfway along the street on the right, and this time she notices the free parking space at the same time he does. He parks the car with unsettling speed and accuracy, then turns to her, the words leaving his lips in a quiet rush. "May I walk you to the door?"

Her stomach flips over, her hands curling around the seat belt strap she's in the middle of unfastening. "Sure."

She knows now that he likes to open doors, but it feels far too awkward sitting in the car, waiting to be released. It's no mean feat to maintain your dignity while climbing out of an Audi wearing a strapless, knee-length dress, but she manages to make it work. She can't help admiring his old-school etiquette, though, and gives him a warm smile when he joins her on the pavement. "Thank you again for driving me home."

He looks at her, his normally vivid eyes dark in the half-light, his voice dropping to little more than a lush whisper. "My pleasure."

She's not in the least bit cold, but a fragile shiver dances down her spine, like cool hands on hot skin. "Uh, I'm just here," she stumbles over the words, her arm feeling like limp spaghetti as she gestures toward her nearby building.

He falls into step beside her, and a few seconds later, when the spike of her right heel wobbles on the uneven concrete pathway, his hand curls around her elbow, steadying her in a way that manages to have completely the opposite effect. His hand is warm, the feel of his thumb resting in the crook of her elbow making her feel as though her arm has been dusted in itching powder.

He says nothing as they walk down the narrow pathway to the security door that leads into the foyer of her apartment complex. When they reach the door, he drops his hand, and she mourns the loss of contact. The small light above the door casts a pale yellow glow over them, and she can't help regretting that the bulb isn't blown as it so often is. They've been alone in a crowd all evening, and now that they're finally truly alone, she feels as though they're standing in a spotlight.

Realising with a start that she's supposed to be finding her keys, she snaps open her purse to do just that. "I had a really good time tonight," she says without looking at him, wanting to fill the thick void of anticipation that seems to be humming between them, and immediately wants to smack herself for resorting to such a tired old line.

"Me too." He leans against the wall, a casual pose to match his next casual words. "I suppose you'll be going to the Governor's house next weekend for the usual 4th July fireworks shindig."

She can't remember the last time she heard the word _shindig_ in everyday conversation, and hearing it now makes her smile. "Not necessarily." She still can't see her keys, confounded that they could elude her in such a small purse, although the addition of an origami crane might have complicated the issue. Keeping her hands busy does nothing to distract her from the implications of his question, but she's careful not to jump to any conclusions. Abandoning the half-hearted search for her keys, she looks up to find him watching her with an intensity that makes her want to join him in leaning against the wall. "Why do you ask?"

"My brother and his girlfriend are having a barbecue on Saturday." He hesitates, making her hold her breath, then smiles. "Would you like to come?"

Her heart does an odd little two-step, and she has the feeling her smile matches his. "Are you asking me on a date?"

He grins, looking decidedly relieved. "Yes."

A large part of her wants to say _yes_ in a very loud voice, but a smaller, more perverse part of her gives into the urge to tease him. "You don't waste any time, do you?"

"We've lived in the same city for thirty years and I've only just met you." His gaze drops to her mouth, as light as a butterfly's wings, then lifts to her eyes once more. "I'm just trying to make up for lost time."

"I would love to come, but first I have to tell you something," she hears herself say in a rush, as though the words will no longer be kept still. "Something I didn't mention tonight because -" She stops, her gut instinct telling her to not waste time making excuses but simply tell him. She has no idea what's going to happen between them, but she needs him to know this one thing. If it changes his perception of her for the worse, then at least she will know now, tonight, before she lets herself fall any further. "I was an addict four years ago, and I'm an addict now." She forces herself to meet his gaze steadily, despite her fear at what she might see in his eyes. "I'm in recovery now and I've been clean for four years come Tuesday, but I will always be an addict."

He smiles, his gaze clear and warm. "Congratulations." Confused, she stares at him. Still smiling, he reaches out and takes the purse from her hands, carefully setting it on the ground beside his feet. "That makes Tuesday your fourth anniversary, right?"

_Oh, God._ She doesn't remember moving toward him, but there seems to be considerably less distance between them now than there had been when they'd first arrived at her door. "Don't you want to know why I checked into rehab?"

"Not if you don't feel ready to tell me." He touches her face, his palm soft against her cheek, his fingertips grazing the curve of her ear. "When you _are_ ready, I'll be all ears."

She wants to smile, but his touch is making her feel as though an invisible band is tightening around her chest. She wants to move, but she feels strangely immobile, almost frozen on the spot despite the heat that seems to have infiltrated her blood and her bones. She wants to say his name, but there's no time, because he dips his head and brushes his lips against hers, once, then twice, a maddeningly light caress that leaves her restless and wanting things she normally would hesitate to even imagine. He draws away slightly, the puff of his breath warm against her lips, his gaze searching her face, waiting. Waiting for permission, absolution, an invitation.

Waiting for _her_.

She touches his chest, her hand splayed flat over his heart, and feels the heat of his skin through his shirt. When she curls her hand around his tie, he gives her a silently imploring glance that makes her feel invincible, and she lifts her face to his.

He leans back, settling himself against the wall in one unhurried motion, taking her with him as he kisses her again, and this time, it's not a light caress. This kiss is a deliberate, languid tasting of her mouth, his tongue teasing her bottom lip with a delicate precision that has her fingers digging into the firm flesh beneath his cotton shirt. She breathes a sigh against his mouth, her body shifting, seeking, finding, her breasts brushing against his chest, her hand dropping to curl around his hipbone.

He makes a rough sound in the back of his throat, then she feels the weight of his arm around her waist, gently pulling her closer. She lets herself savour the last moment of anticipation, then she opens her mouth to his kiss, drinking in the taste of him, coffee and sugar and salt and heat. His tongue brushes hers, a lazy, lush tangle of slick heat, and the thrum of arousal blossoms into life low in her belly, heavy between her thighs and the tips of her breasts. One lean thigh slides between hers, and a shock of pure pleasure rips through her at the feel of him against her, the thick ridge of his erection pressing hard against the hollow ache between her legs, the heat flashing from his skin to hers despite the many layers of wedding guest finery.

Acting solely on instinct, she gently bites at his bottom lip, delighting in the shudder that she feels ripple through his body. A long moment later, he lifts his head, his mouth looking as tender as hers feels, and gazes at her as though he's just discovered a precious, long-forgotten artefact of the architectural world. He exhales shakily, then rests his forehead against hers. His skin is damp with sweat, but she doesn't care. "I'm going to need to call you several times between now and next Saturday," he murmurs, the words tiny whispers of warmth against her swollen mouth.

It's hard to think when his hands are on her hips and she's pressed against him from shoulder to knee and she can feel every single beat of his heart. "Is that right?"

"Mmmm." Lifting one hand from her waist, he brushes back the hair from her bare shoulder, tracing the curve of her neck with his fingertip. If she had the energy, she thinks, she'd blush. "But that could prove difficult if I don't have your number."

She draws back enough to see his face, then rubs her thumb over his lips, smiling at the smudge of lipstick at the corner of his mouth. "I don't have a pen."

"Just tell me." His smile, now lipstick-free, is almost a smirk. "I'll remember it."

She wonders if she should also tell him that the feel of his mouth on hers is the closest she's come to feeling high since she got sober, then decides she'll save that for another day. Another night.

Putting her lips to his ear, she recites her phone number twice, his hand tightening on her hip with each new digit. When she's done, she shifts backward in his embrace, knowing she needs to be alone on the other side of that door soon, or she will end up rushing into something that she would much rather savour. "You got that?"

The tanned column of his throat works as he swallows. "Yes." He closes his eyes for a few seconds, then pushes himself away from the wall, gently turning her towards the door. "You'd better go in." Picking up her purse from the ground, he retrieves her keys, and presses them into her hand.

Her palms are damp, but she manages to open the security door. Once she's gripping the handle, she tucks her purse beneath her arm and turns to face him. "If you do happen to forget the number-"

He touches her one last time, smoothing his palm down her arm from elbow to wrist, his fingers dancing lightly over the hammering pulse beneath her skin, and her knees almost buckle at the deceptively chaste touch. "I won't."

She catches his hand in hers, threading her fingers between his tightly. Dangerous, she knows, and all too easy to draw him inside, to not let him vanish into the first gray light of dawn. "If you do, though? I'm in the book."

His hand tightens around hers, then he lifts it to his lips, pressing a hard kiss to her knuckles. She has time to commit the feel of his mouth on her skin to memory, then he's dropping her hand and stepping away from her. "Goodnight, Sara."

She smiles at him, knowing that this has been the strangest, and most intoxicating evening, she's had in a very, very long time. Wondering how it's possible to be so tired and yet so exhilarated at the same time, she gives him a tiny wave as she opens the door, unable to resist the urge to part on a suitably unconventional note. "Goodnight, Phineas."

His eyes light up, his smile almost stretching from ear to ear. He takes one half-step toward her, sending her pulse rocketing skyward once again, then he seems to give himself a mental shake. "I'll call you."

She leans her head against the edge of the now open door, deciding that playing hard to get is overrated. "I hope so."

He takes several slow steps backward, his eyes still locked with hers, as if he's trying to memorise the sight of her. When he reaches the pathway to the sidewalk, he gives her a final wave and, as he turns away, she can see he's still grinning.

The next half hour passes in a slow blur of familiar ritual that utterly fails to dislodge the feeling of her feet not quite touching the ground. She shuts the security door behind her, reaching her own front door a moment later. Shoes kicked off, purse and wrap dumped onto the end of her bed, earrings dropped into the bowl on her bedroom dresser. Dress stripped off and draped over the chair in the corner of her room, then into the bathroom to wash away her makeup and clean her teeth. Everything is very ordinary, a litany of tasks she does every single day, almost without thinking, but she feels as though she's doing each and every one for the first time.

When she finally slips into bed, she relishes at the feel of the cool cotton sheets against her too-warm skin. Her summer pyjamas make her feel both too constricted _and_ too exposed, every inch of her body oddly sensitive, as though it's been charged with static electricity. Her air-conditioner still isn't working, but she doesn't care. Rolling onto her side, she hugs her spare pillow to her chest and allows herself to wallow in the memory of the last few hours.

Burying her smile in the pillow in her arms, she replays their kiss - God, that kiss - over and over in her head, the same spasm of desire twisting through her belly every time. When she finally falls asleep, though, her last thought is of the small paper bird tucked into her purse, a fragile token that feels almost like a promise.


	9. Chapter 9

On the journey from the coffee shop to her apartment, the conversation flows relatively easily, but every single word he utters is light years away from what he actually wants to say to her. Instead of blurting out that he'd be happy to see her every single day for quite a long time, he answers her cheery questions about television and music and asks some questions of his own. He quickly discovers that their tastes aren't a perfect match but that doesn't matter in the slightest. Despite his calling, he's always been a little wary of perfect symmetry, at least when it comes to people.

When they finally reach her street, she points out her apartment block. The parking gods smile on him once more - or perhaps not, he thinks, given that a park further from her door would have allowed him more time with her - and he's soon switching off the engine with an undeniably nervous flick of his fingers. "May I walk you to the door?"

She hesitates for the briefest of seconds, sending his hopes plummeting, then she smiles. "Sure."

Hope, like the proverbial phoenix, recovers quickly. He hastily opens his door, but she's already climbing out of the car by the time he reaches her side of the vehicle, gifting him with a quick glimpse of shapely knees and a discreet but distracting hint of cleavage. Putting his hand flat on the hood of his car, he takes a deep breath and counts to ten.

She waits while he shuts the car door behind her, then gives him another smile. "Thank you again for driving me home."

He smiles, controlling the urge to confess he would have driven her up and down the length of Illinois if it meant he'd have her to himself for another few hours. He consoles himself with the fact that his offer to drive her home stemmed from more than just his wish to spend more time in her company. He has no doubt she's an extremely capable person, but he really didn't want to put her into an anonymous taxi at three o'clock in the morning. "My pleasure."

Her gaze locks with his and, for a few timeless seconds, he sees indecision in her eyes. "Uh, I'm just here," she murmurs, her gaze finally dropping as she waves one slender arm towards the apartment block to their right.

He's never felt like dragging his feet more. The heat of the previous day has faded to an agreeable predawn cool, and the air is spiked with a heady floral scent wafting from a massive jasmine bush planted in front of the far wall of her apartment complex. Neither of these sensory niceties, however, can complete with the simple pleasure of walking beside her.

Sara crosses her arms as they walk, her hands tucked into the crook of each elbow, her long legs matching his stride easily. When her right foot falters on a rough patch of concrete footpath a few seconds later, it's suddenly the most natural thing in the world for him to lift his hand and gently take her arm. She gives him a quick smile of thanks, and he tries - and fails utterly - not to wonder if the rest of her skin is as soft as the warm flesh beneath his palm.

She doesn't lean into him, but she doesn't pull away either, and the time it takes to cover the distance to the front door of her apartment block is painfully short. When they reach the door, he forces himself to release his gentle grip on her arm. She doesn't look at him as she reaches for the clutch purse that's been tucked under her other arm, and her expression is difficult to read. The metal _click_ of her purse clasp is oddly loud in the stillness surrounding them, then she clears her throat lightly. "I had a really good time tonight."

He hears the nervous tremor darting through her voice, and he knows – God, he hopes he knows – that whatever is happening here between them, it's entirely mutual. "Me too." He leans against the wall, determined not to leave until he's extracted the promise of another date, or at least her number; anything that means that this won't be the first and last time he sees her. He watches her as she delves into her open purse, obviously looking for her house keys, then makes a decision that will either be the best or the worst one he's ever made. "I suppose you'll be going to the Governor's house next weekend for the usual 4th July fireworks shindig."

Her mouth curve in a smile that makes him want to taste what's left of her faded lipstick. "Not necessarily." Putting the search for her keys on hold, she lifts her head and gives him a disconcertingly steady look. "Why do you ask?"

"My brother and his girlfriend are having a barbecue on Saturday." _Stop over-thinking. Just do it._ He smiles at her. "Would you like to come?"

Her eyes widen, but she's smiling, too. "Are you asking me on a date?"

Her response is not that of a woman who dislikes the idea of going on a date with him, and he doesn't bother hiding his grin. "Yes."

Her smile widens, her tone becoming faintly teasing. "You don't waste any time, do you?"

"We've lived in the same city for thirty years and I've only just met you." He sees the impact of his simple words in her eyes, and thinks he could really get used to being this open and straightforward with her. "I'm just trying to make up for lost time."

"I would love to come," she says softly, quickly, almost before he's finished speaking, "but first I have to tell you something." Her hands shift their grip on her purse, flexing and relaxing over and over again. "Something I didn't mention tonight because -" She breaks off, her gaze sliding away from his, her pale throat working as she swallows hard. After a few endless seconds, she takes a deep breath and looks him in the eye once more. "I was an addict four years ago, and I'm an addict now." Her gaze searches his face worriedly, as if afraid of what she might see there. "I'm in recovery now and I've been clean for four years come Tuesday, but I will always be an addict."

A rush of tender pride washes over him, the force of it taking him by surprise. He's lost count of the number of addicts he's met and mentored during his time at the shelter, but it seems things are very different when you're violently attracted to the recovering addict in question. He smiles at her, giving her the only answer that rings true to him. "Congratulations."

She stares at him, as though confused by his reaction. No longer caring that he's probably grinning like an idiot, he gently tugs her purse from her hands, places it carefully on the cement beside his feet, then moves those feet a few steps closer to hers. "That makes Tuesday your fourth anniversary, right?"

She frowns as she turns to face him, her hands fluttering in the empty air between them, her eyes searching his. "Don't you want to know why I checked into rehab?"

"Not if you don't feel ready to tell me." Perhaps he's being naive, but it's the truth. She's already revealed far more than she realises, and that's enough for him. His pulse thrumming at the back of his throat, he does something he never thought he'd be doing when he arrived at the church yesterday afternoon. Lifting his hand to her face, he lets his palm rest against her cheek, his fingertips flirting with the delicate curve of her ear. "When you _are_ ready, I'll be all ears."

She's not smiling now, but that's okay, because there's a heat in her eyes that makes his whole body tighten. Beneath the subtle scent of her perfume, he can smell her skin and her hair, sweet and soft. His hand is still cupping her face, the glittering drop of her earring brushing against his fingers, her almost inaudible rush of breath as she parts her lips as loud as a clanging bell inside his whirring thoughts. He sees and hears and feels a hundred different things as he waits, an exquisite moment of anticipation, then he bows his head and touches his mouth to hers.

Her lips seem to soften beneath his, another sigh letting him feel the warmth of her breath. He brushes his mouth against hers a second time, this time letting his bottom lip catch hers in a fleeting caress that sends an urgent rush of heat straight to his groin. With a supreme effort, he lifts his head and draws away, wanting to see her face, praying that he hasn't overstepped this particular line way too soon.

To his utter relief, she looks exactly how he feels; dazed, but in the best way imaginable. Her eyes lock with his as she lifts her hand to his heart, her fingertips five points of heat as they slide across his shirt until her palm is flat against his chest. He's conscious of the rise and fall of his body beneath her hand, his already quickened breathing snagging in his lungs when she wraps her hand around his tie, her knuckles pressing lightly against his sternum. He looks at her, silently urging her to put him out of this delicious misery, and a tiny smile touches the corner of her mouth as she lifts her face to his.

Their first kiss, while chaste, had made his pulse quicken. This kiss makes him want to sink to the ground and wrap himself around her until she is arching and trembling in his arms. Somewhere, amidst the taste and feel of her, he knows this is neither the time nor the place, so he does the next best thing. Leaning back against the wall behind him, he tugs her closer, letting the weight of her body press him against the rough brickwork.

Her breasts are high and full against his chest, her hips twitching maddeningly as she shifts her weight, and his core body temperature leaps right off the scale. Just when he thinks this is the most erotic embrace he's ever experienced, he feels the twin sensation of her hand on his hip and the tip of her tongue brushing against his. He hears himself make a choked noise that feels as though it's come straight from his solar plexus, then they're kissing frantically, hard and deep, his hands tight on her hips, a breathless dance of hunger and need and discovery.

_I knew it._ The words flash through the blurred tangle of his thoughts, a dazed realisation. When he slides his knee between hers, she immediately shifts closer, moulding her body to his, and the press of her belly against his aching erection is almost enough to make him forget the security light above their heads. When he feels the nip of her teeth on his bottom lip, he's tempted to reach up and unscrew the damned light bulb altogether.

He kisses her until he feels himself approaching zero, the almost painful clamouring of his body becoming more and more insistent. He wants so much more - he wants _everything_ - but for tonight, for now, this kiss is enough.

He reluctantly lifts his head, his lips feeling as shaky as his legs, to find her gazing at him as though she can't quite believe what's just happened. Thinking he knows exactly how she feels, he exhales loudly before bowing his head to hers once more. This time, though, he simply rests his forehead against hers, wanting to be as close to her as possible without actually kissing her. "I'm going to need to call you several times between now and next Saturday," he says softly, trying out the words gingerly on his tingling tongue. His hands are still gripping her hips, holding her close enough for her to realise his body is still hoping for a different outcome to the evening, but she doesn't seem to mind.

Her smile is evident in her voice. "Is that right?"

"Mmmm." He lifts his head, smiling as he gives into yet another temptation, this time exploring the smooth curve of her throat and shoulder as he brushes aside several wayward tendrils of dark auburn hair. If he touched his thumb to the tender spot beneath her jaw, he thinks, would her pulse be racing as quickly as his? "But that could prove difficult if I don't have your number."

She leans back, smiling, the arch of her spine pressing her hips against his in a very interest way. "I don't have a pen," she says lightly as she lifts one hand to his face and rubs her thumb across his mouth. Her lipstick has all but vanished, and he doesn't have to try too hard to imagine where it might have gone.

"Just tell me." If there's one thing he knows at this moment in time, it's that he's got a good head for numbers. "I'll remember it."

A few seconds later, the words _be careful what you wish for_ flutter through his head. Her perfume teases his senses as she puts her lips to his ear, the feel of her warm breath on his heated skin sending goosebumps skittering down his spine with every new number she utters. As though realising the effect she's having on him, she tells him her number twice, and by the time she's finished, he knows he'll never be able to call her without blushing. Finally, she takes a small step backwards, and his whole body immediately protests the lack of her. "You got that?"

_God._ "Yes." He closes his eyes, then moves away from the brick wall, his hand momentarily tightening on her hip as he turns her towards the door. "You'd better go in." _Purse,_ he thinks dazedly. _Keys_. Blinking, he hurriedly picks up her purse, finds her keys, and drops both items into her waiting hands. Then he steps back, giving her space to open the door and himself some badly needed room to cool down. To his relief – and utter disappointment – she's quick to open the metal security door, holding it ajar as she turns to face him with a smile. "If you do happen to forget the number-"

He succumbs to the need to touch her one last time, sliding his palm along the length of her arm, her skin smooth beneath the sweep of his fingertips. "I won't."

To his surprise, she grabs his hand, entwining her fingers with his. "If you do, though?" Her dark gaze seems to burn into his. "I'm in the book."

Obeying an impulse stronger than any amount of willpower he's ever possessed, he lifts their clasped hands to his mouth, pressing a long kiss to the back of her hand, tasting the salt of her skin on his tongue. _Time to go._ "Goodnight, Sara."

It's after four o'clock in the morning, and he suspects she's beyond weary, but her eyes are bright with mischief as she smiles at him. "Goodnight, Phineas."

Much later, he will wonder if this was the moment he decided she was the perfect woman for him, but right now, all he knows is that he wants to sweep her up in his arms and whisk her away in his car to install her in his apartment and his bed and his life. _Which could_, he thinks as he gives himself a mental shake, _be classified as rushing things_. But God, he _wants_ to rush. "I'll call you."

Her eyes never leaving his, she rests her head against the open door, her voice infused with a quiet optimism that makes his chest tighten. "I hope so."

He has to leave, but he can't bring himself to turn his back on her. Wanting to drink in the sight of her for as long as possible, he starts to back away from her, earning himself a smile in the process. He knows ten paces will bring him to the cobbled pathway that will take him to the sidewalk, allowing him the luxury of enjoying her smile as she watches him. When his right heel lands on the edge of the pathway, he lifts his hand and waves, a gesture that manages to feel both absurd and exactly right.

She waves back, adding a dimpled smile of farewell into the bargain. He turns to walk down the path, then gives into the temptation to sneak one last look. He sees her slip inside, then hears the click of the door being locked behind her. He pauses, his gaze sweeping over the apartment complex as he studies the darkened windows, then turns on his heel, silently berating himself. _You're not a creepy stalker type, remember?_

He walks slowly back to his car, feeling as though it's been hours since he left it. Patting down his pockets, he finds only his car keys and wallet. Any hopes of retracing his steps to the apartment block behind him are dashed when he spies his cell phone sitting on the driver's seat where he'd left it in his haste to open Sara's door. As he picks it up to toss it onto the passenger seat, its screen comes to life, showing a new incoming message. His heart does a quick two-step as his brain jumps to the most pleasant assumption, then he remembers he didn't give Sara his number. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he quickly checks his inbox before he starts the ignition. The text message is from Lincoln, sent several hours earlier when Michael still had the phone set to _silent_. It would have been around the time he and Sara were ordering their first coffee, he realises.

_How was wedding? Boring as batshit?_

Michael chuckles beneath his breath. Tossing the phone onto the seat beside him, he starts the engine, then takes one last look at the apartment complex he's just left. There are two lights glowing in two adjoining windows in the southeast corner, quite possibly a bedroom and a bathroom. He smiles, thinking she'd probably have a pretty impressive view from that corner apartment.

Hastily assuring himself there's a difference between being a creepy stalker and finding out these things by accident, he begins the five minute journey to his own apartment. The traffic is minimal, the usual assortment of shift-workers and taxis, providing little to distract him from mentally replaying the evenings events on a loop in his head. He thinks about their words, her smile, her eyes, her laugh. Mostly, though, he thinks about their kiss. After five minutes of undeniably pleasant mental torture, it's almost a relief to turn into his street.

When he's parked his car in its usual space and switched off the engine, Michael picks up his cell phone and reads his brother's text message again. He grins, his fingers flying over the keypad as he types a reply. His grin widens as he presses _send_, knowing that both the obscurity of his reply and the time it was sent will no doubt irritate his curious brother nicely.

_Best wedding ever._


	10. Chapter 10

If he was asked to define Hell on Earth at this exact moment, Michael Scofield thinks, he would be tempted to simply wave a weary hand at his current situation. Then again, he's thought he was going to die at least three times in the last ten minutes, so maybe he's not the best one to judge.

Sweats drips into his eyes, making them sting, and each pounding step sends a quiver of agony through his calf muscles. As the footsteps over his shoulder grow closer and closer, he sucks in another desperate lungful of oxygen, pushing himself even harder, because he has no intention of letting his tormentor win this particular battle.

Five minutes later, he's bent over at the waist, his hands on his hips, gulping in as much air as his lungs will hold. The hearty slap on the back nearly knocks him off-balance, but the teasing jibe that follows is enough to make him pull himself upright. "Man, you'd better be in shape by the time number two arrives, or you'll never survive."

Michael swipes his arm across his face, wiping the sweat from his eyes to allow him to glare at his running companion. "Is that the voice of experience talking, or are you just being a pain in the ass?"

His brother grins, teeth flashing white in his tanned face. "Little from column A, little from column B." He flicks his wrist, and a small bottle of water arcs through the air between them. "Vee does most of the running after our two and she does it without breaking a sweat." He gives a good-natured roll of the eyes. "And you know how _she_ is about exercising on purpose."

Michael chuckles as he catches the bottle of water, relieved that his straining lungs still seem to be working properly. Veronica's steadfast refusal to step foot inside her husband's gym unless it's to check the books and read over the staff's employment contracts has always amused him, but it seems to work for them. "Newborns can't run," he points out mildly, and Lincoln gives him a look of pure condescension.

"You'll see," his brother says in a cheerfully ominous voice. "You guys still coming to our place next Sunday?"

"That depends." Tilting back his head, he drains half the bottle in a few gulps, then grins at his brother. "Have you learned to cook hamburgers without burning the crap out of them yet?"

The insult, as always, rolls straight off Lincoln's shoulders. "One man's charcoal is another man's well-done, bro."

"We'll be there," Michael tells him as they begin to trudge back towards where they'd parked their cars. "We'll be putting in the usual appearance at the Executive Mansion on Saturday night for the fireworks, but Sunday is all yours."

It takes his brother a moment to reply – his mind is obviously still focused on the workout they've just done, one finger pressed against the pulse beneath his jaw, his gaze intent on his watch – but eventually he tosses Michael an openly curious glance. "How are things between you and old Frank these days?"

Michael takes a moment to consider the question. The road to forging a decent relationship with Frank Tancredi over the last three years has been a bumpy one, to say the least. Given the first stumbling block was Sara falling pregnant three months into their relationship, Michael decided long ago that things could only improve from there. "Not too bad."

Lincoln smirks. "I guess seeing as you've knocked up his daughter within the confines of wedlock this time around -"

Michael might be tempted to be insulted, but as usual, his brother has pretty much hit the nail on the head. Knowing it's easier to join them than beat them when it comes to Lincoln, he grins at him. "Yeah, we're hoping that little fact might even make up for getting married on a beach instead of in St Paul's cathedral."

"I wouldn't hold your breath." His brother laughs out loud, the sound almost startling in the pre-dawn tranquillity around them. "Vee's father might be a drunken bum, but at least he didn't give a damn about the wheres and whos when we got hitched."

Michael retrieves his car keys from the pocket of his sweats. "I thought he was going to AA?"

"When it suits him." He shrugs. "It's like Sara told Vee, it's not going to work until he actually _wants_ to quit boozing. Until then, he's just going for the free cookies and coffee." He knocks his knuckles on the hood of Michael's SUV. "How's it running?"

"Pretty good," Michael says with a grin, reaching up to tap his fingers on the roof of the car he'd bought the day they'd discovered Sara was pregnant, trading in the Audi without a second's hesitation.

Lincoln eyes the keys in his brother's hand, a familiar smirk playing about his lips. "Just as well, man. Embarrassing to drive an Audi with such a dorky key ring."

Michael spins his car keys around on his index finger, making the small plastic space ship fly through the air. "You're just jealous you don't have one."

"That'll be the day." His brother rolls his eyes as he trudges the short distance to his own car. "When did she give you that thing, on your first date?"

"Third date," Michael corrects him, not bothering to suppress what he suspects is a goofy smile. It was three years ago, but the memory of Sara presenting him with the Millennium Falcon key ring she'd found on eBay is still as sharp as the day it happened. Of course, the key ring hadn't been the only thing she'd given him that day –

"Michael!"

Startled, he looks across to see Lincoln staring at him, his hands on his hips. "Uh, sorry, what?"

"I said I'll see you on Sunday." His brother shakes his head, looking more amused than annoyed. "Bring beer."

Michael rolls his own eyes. As if he'd turn up to a barbecue at Lincoln's without beer. He's not sure he'd be let in the front door, only brother or not. "Say hi to Vee for me."

Home is only a fifteen minute drive, and the house is quiet and still when he lets himself in the front door. He'd initially resisted Lincoln's suggestion of an especially early run this morning, but now he's glad. The weekend stretches out before him, free and clear, two whole days to spend with the two people he likes most in the world.

He eases off his running shoes inside the door, and pads through the house, his sock-clad feet silent on the wooden floorboards. As he gently places his wallet and car keys on the dining room table, he looks - as he always does – at the framed photograph sitting on top of the bookcase and, as always, it makes him smile. The silver frame itself is nondescript, surrounding a candid photograph taken three years ago. He doesn't have to look at the back of the photograph to remember the note scribbled there; he's long learned it by heart.

_Dear Sara, the honeymoon was wonderful! We must catch up soon, but I was just going through the candids that the official photographer took during the reception and found this one. Thought you might like it as a souvenir of our special day. Hope you got his number! Love Bec xoxox_

In the photograph, he and Sara are sitting at his table at the wedding reception. Sara is talking, her hands curved in the air between them as if she's making a particularly emphatic point. He's gazing at her, apparently completely oblivious to everything else around him. Michael smiles as he straightens the frame. His brother might say that nothing much has changed since then, but there _is_ one little difference.

He stops at the first bedroom off the hallway, holding his breath as he silently opens the door. To his relief, Christopher is still asleep, his normally frenetic motion interrupted by slumber, his light brown hair clipped in a new haircut that reminds Michael very much of LJ as a child. Pulling the door shut with exaggerated care, he walks silently to the main bathroom to take a very quick shower. He would very much like to take advantage of the fact that their son is still asleep, but he doesn't think his wife would appreciate the earthiness of his post-running glow.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he dumps his running gear into the laundry basket, then eases open the door to the master bedroom. Sara is still asleep too, her arms wrapped around one of his pillows, her bright red hair a vivid tumble against the green sheets. As he drops the damp towel onto the floor (mental note, he thinks, pick up towel before she sees it) and slides into bed beside her, she shifts restlessly, then rolls onto her side to face him. "How was your run?" Her voice is thick with sleep, but her smile is as warm as the sunshine beginning to creep through the wooden blind at their window.

"Brutal."

She chuckles under her breath, curling her arm around his waist as he stretches out beside her. "How's your brother?"

"Annoying." Wrapping his arm around her, he pulls her closer, his body instantly coming alive at the feel of her against him. She smells of soap and sleep and Sara, and he wants nothing more than to kiss her from her throat to her toes and everywhere in between.

She smiles against the curve of his bare shoulder, apparently oblivious to his increasingly lurid thoughts. "What time are they expecting us on Sunday?"

"Uh, he didn't say."

"Well, they've held a 4th July barbecue every year since I met you, so I guess the usual time will be fine." She yawns softly, arching her back as she stretches her legs, her feet brushing against his. Her hand slides from his chest to his belly, then a little lower, then stops. "Um, Michael?"

He closes his eyes, giving himself over to the simple pleasure of her touch. "Hmmmm?"

She trails her fingertips up his bare thigh, then draws a teasing circle around his groin. "You're not wearing any clothes."

"I took a shower," he manages to say, his whole body tightening with anticipation of her next touch.

"Christopher is sound asleep, I'm awake and you're not wearing any clothes." Her voice humming with quiet laughter, she wraps her hand around him, making him suck in a sharp breath and dig his heels into the mattress. "Can you do the math here, or do I have to be pushy about this?"

Letting out his breath in a rush, he rolls onto his side, pushing one leg between hers as he peels up her sleeveless pyjama top with one hand. "I'm very good at math," he tells her with a smile.

Her pyjamas are soon lost in the bedclothes, her arms sliding around his neck as he reaches for her. Her breasts are fuller now, filling his hands as he bends his head to kiss each one in turn. Her fingers dig into his shoulders with each new scrape of his teeth and touch of his tongue, her body shifting restlessly beneath his, her breath coming faster, louder. When she arches her back, exhaling a sigh of pleasure as she tilts back her head, he needs no further encouragement. He scrapes his morning beard against her throat, tasting the goosebumps that rise up on her skin, then settles himself in the cradle of her thighs. "And how are we feeling this morning, Doctor Tancredi?"

"Pretty good," she murmurs, tightening his legs around him. "And you?"

He closes his eyes as he sinks into her in a slow slide of heat and flesh, a groan rumbling in his throat as her hips instantly rise to meet his, each languid thrust making him see stars behind his eyelids. "Great. Good. Couldn't be better. Oh, God, Sara-"

She kisses him, swallowing his groan of delight, her fingers pressing deep into the muscles of his back. Her skin is already flushed, the tight buds of her nipples brushing against his bare chest, her body slick and hot around his. It's always been good between them, right from the very first time, but pregnancy seems to agree with her in more ways than one, and he is eternally grateful.

She buries her face against his shoulder when she comes, shuddering beneath him with a muffled cry, beating him to the finish line by mere seconds. He slumps over her, feeling as though his entire skeletal system has been replaced with warm jello, his brain with melted Playdough. _And that thought alone_, he decides wryly as Sara strokes his damp back, _is a sure sign he now thinks like a parent._

It's also a reminder there is one person he hasn't checked on this morning. Wrapping one arm around her hips, he slides downward until his cheek is resting on the swell of her stomach. "Good morning in there." He kisses Sara's navel, then presses his ear against the high curve of her belly. "Hey, I can hear the ocean."

"Idiot," his wife chuckles, her fingers snaking pathways through his cropped hair as the unmistakable sounds of their firstborn waking up start to filter underneath their bedroom door. "It's your turn, Scofield."

Feigning a weary sigh, he disentangles himself. "A man works five days a week, you'd think he'd be allowed a little more shuteye on a Saturday morning."

She pinches him somewhere very interesting, halting his efforts to leave their rumpled bed. "Sure, but only if his wife is a lady of leisure."

Between working as a counsellor at their local NA center and looking after one and a half children, he's pretty sure she doesn't qualify for that particular title. "Curse your legal mumbo jumbo."

Having hastily donned a pair of boxers, he pauses at the door, turning to study her. The forest green sheets reveal far more skin than they conceal, the contrast of her bright hair against them making him think of mermaids and oceans and bright June sunshine outside a gothic cathedral. She stretches languidly, her arms raised high above her head, then catches his eye. She smiles, her dark gaze glowing with lazy satisfaction. "Something wrong?"

He grins. "Not a thing."


End file.
